unsure hope walks
where wind brings
the hymn of doves
shimmering a slow kiss
upon hours of stone
dreaming to leave
light amber traces
of aquarelle solace
on moments of silence.

deep-hearted, night
lingers, to speak not
of time’s frail sighs
inside each raindrop-
moon-spun, exhaled
from welkin lungs
while piano chimes
surrender to adagio
of dim wildcat eyes.

hushed windows gaze
at the cyan deluge
learning a language
of tidal whispercraft
fogged on the eve
of birthing summer-
amber-soft, cloudlit
within a warm chamber
of serenading dreams.

garden is chanting
torrents of lilacs
wrapped in argent mist
from the silken beyond
as frail silhouettes
waltz an aerial song
waning to breaths
of lotus-hued vaults
unraveling the dawn.

dusk magic

on the old sidewalk
by a closed flower shop
i fathom a tiny sun
abloom in your
shy summer hands –

you talk of
the nature of light
while i imagine it
beaming above open
meadow lands.

the fog recedes
and there’s a warmth
of understanding
between our eyes’
hidden realms –

soft breeze embraces
the flow
of eventide moments
and this time
you don’t disappear.


the ancient lighthouse glows lavender
closer to the quiet starfallen sky
as billowing wishes reach for the room
teaching walls a language of flights.

in the vase there’s a bouquet of lilacs,
a reminder of how to wake up and see.
Lemarchal’s songs, better on repeat.
isn’t it a beautiful reason to breathe?

where cottonwood winded the fields
a flaxen-haired girl once told her to smile.
so in the dark she only smiles and wonders
when the new dawn begins to shine.


blindfolded hope is sleeping on white floors and dried yellow pages, those prayer-worn spaces where even a soft echo in the wing of a firebird lingers deep, summoned by vigilant light to make smithereens whole.

it was written in embers, yet blessed by children of spring. breath-held and ashape with tenderness from beyond: an unfathomable novel read between stones only stunned by a peaceful dawn beauty’s voice.

i imagine candle dew chimes lit to pave the valley of the ocean meeting the muse of wounded silent sky as love letters are flooding guns when you drift along pale blue waves and embrace the voids.

the abyss
and birth are
within your eyes.
if the sun above
burns out
you will shine






(yelena 2015)


it is night.
and your scent sweeps
invisible roses
along a thorn-covered

does the wind speak
in veiled orient hope
behind pilgrim’s dunes,
ever mirage-clad?

slow soars
an abiding cloud.
its wings are bare
to a lulled
yet lush moonbeam.


i’m only an old sandstorm
dreaming an oasis dream.

(yelena 2014, Negev)


she welcomes the warmest sun
writing strange messages
to the dovey wind from vineyards
never seen before.

maybe there’s always a summer
in her oaken veins,
so when cold seasons come
she secretly lights
little bonfires on the coast
to glorify its goldheart of heat.

she kisses the riot petals wet with dew
when dawns are clouded on the face
of a reverent mountain from his reveries
reaching for the savage ripeness
of raspberries and valley fields
his arms unveil with such ease.

she welcomes the warmest sun
to breathe






natsumi (Jap.) – ‘summer beauty’