dark and light


i’ve met light-bearers,
self-fulfilling prophets
looking into the mirror
to worship the glory
of their own infinite bliss,
speaking words of love
and luring the lost
to lands of poisoning sweets.

i’ve met shadow loners,
quiet soaring spirits
traveling along somber realms,
silently embracing the weak
and giving a tired kiss
to the hopeless,
whispering in a language
of unnoticed nocturnal dreams.



beneath waning clouds
the train is running
towards a lonely city
dwelling in limbo
of silence

as from afar she reads
steel minutes on walls
with her hands
in wired braille.

line after line withers
yet she prays the light
stays light
while stars fall on roads
where his steps sparkle
and turn to dawn.

but her world
closes all doors
and opens
the infinite night.


summer wine

by the light
of silver lanterns
hope blooms silently.

find it.

find it in the depth of being
that shatters the glass
of charred memories.

lotus of the eventide
sprouts towards a door
of your reverie
and i look at you
realizing i’m there too.

meadows unfold
and wave the soul
of faraway centuries.

the dream is an eternal bird.
the night is your smile.



(yelena 2014)



roofs sing golden at sunset,
stones carefully shape
heavy pavements
and my steps, one by one,
in the street,
argent and tobacco-flavored.

i’m here
at last

being away, for too long,
through the fog of ether;

i unchained the song and
now silently stroll
along the dusky smiles
of passers-by.

there are doors behind
and centuries
where my silhouette
was a melting ghost
jailed in the years
when i didn’t realize
the void
behind storms and fears
and drowned
in the non-existence
of limbo hours.

there is tenderness too,
and that is 
the only  thing i hold
(yet let it fly)

i move towards
the inner home
and pave the path
by ashes of the unspoken
inventing a new language
to speak
with the heart of earth
and the soul of night




(yelena 2014)


it rains
in blue-burnt serenity
upon the morning city,
afloat yet stoned.

i think
of greeting
soft streams of silence
and turn my face
to the hidden dawn.
streets still sleep
in the realm
of deep sepia tones
as afterglows
of a lonely ashen night

but my heart
wears a robe
of white flowers and stillness
dancing a slow waltz
along subtly cascading waterfalls
of azure light.

(yelena 2014)



a gossamer evening
cascading from low clouds
dwells where inked light
is the sonnet of sun’s shine.

silent streets cherish steps
reflected on silver lanterns
in the quiet afterglow of a day,
the slow becoming of a piano prayer.

tears are made of violets
and lavender snow
unfolding its grace in exile,
coloring the sky-eyed season,
timeless and glowing.

(…unwind and grasp at the flowing air,
the inner tides are calling
as cooling waters run through
the veins of heated earth…)

trees are dormant cathedrals,
nights whisper of rest in dreams
lullabying the songs of violins
upon rustling leaves.

a soft agony of chambered confessions
sheds summers and dawns
cast into vulnerability
and burnt so softly
notes hardly breathe
between the sound and fading.

and secrets of this haven
weave a sigh of the divine
into the dark night of the soul

and in devotion softly die.


(yelena 2014)

tea house in summer (II)



one suspended moment:
a dovey murmur of mint breeze in sleepy branches
mingles with cinnamon haze
nesting the early dawn with lullabied sky yarn
powdered by distantly chanting constellations
as the orange blush of a citrus solace
dapples the steeped leaf
and the nectar’s subtle ginger
dissolves into sweetened hails;
from echoes of a lost eventide
the magnolia sprouts, its blossom a home
for blended lores that unearth the wood
towards a velvet firmament
where silken clouds of blues
are beamed with transient fallings
down the star-woven space;
strawberries are drunk on soft vanilla,
an orchestra of sighs sails
along the inner meadow of wandering
to summon a gentle heart,
to revel in the enchantment of spice billows,
and nightingales kiss the dark
with lightly sung feathered enigmas
trembling by the reign of his misted luminary.


dreams compose a cooling minuet
of the shimmer from mid-air
dissolving to tiny worlds threaded with hidden ways

and the whisper of a dew-scented reverie
reveals grace as a sacrament
of the vanishing night.




(yelena 2014)