Write to Us

Stanza I A soldier departed, leaving his memories to another comrade, They were good friends, like two brothers, The cold war turned them into enemies, They were borderline friends. Stanza II They wore different tricolors upon their chests, One of them said: „I cannot kill you, my friend!” Called to roll in those days, they parted ways, And since then they fought for their country, and one was defeated. Stanza III Such sorrow... he was his only friend, He pulls the photograph from his chest and looks at it: his very best friend killed him! He dedicated himself to his country, And his country does not give two cents for his poems. Stanza IV One was a writer, the other a faithful reader, He had no choice, he was the last soldier Who from his nib imprinted the astral universe. Stanza V The country is us, we dedicate the flowers to him, He writes with dramatic bullets into memories, In longing for eclipses, he refused to fight any longer. Stanza VI He took the gun and turned it toward his own army, And with the voice of a lion he cried out: I will no longer fight for a state and a country of murderers!

It is far more than that, it is the beginning, The essence that has never perished, It is the quill that pierces the unseen And illuminates the wearied soul. An inkwell in which the heavens weep, A tear of the Lord upon a frail sheet, It is all that alters the ephemeral in this world And makes of salvation a sacred order. For as in the beginning, through the holy Word, All things were made and given breath, Out of the Son's love, upon this earth, To the Father's Glory, in everlasting honor. There is a Poet who has risen among us, The voice of souls, in hearts and in stanzas; Feel the calling, leave behind all that is stained, Cast the blank page into the sea of catastrophes. For all that is not holy does not speak for you, Divinity is eternal, living, and present; And pages fade away, but love is holy, In our poetry it remains eloquent. Who suffocates us, who holds us back, From feeling the love in the purest verse? When poetry grows in the soul like a flower, And shows us the countenance of the One who created us.

On the cold rock, where the sky is silent, A thought with wide wings has nested, An eagle that out of stillness carves A path through solitary clouds. He knows no fear of the tempest, On the threshold of lightning he stands unmoved, For he knows: the arm of the One who gathers us Has placed him on the summits, in boundless flight. With eyes set upon the eternal sun, Defying the earth full of heavy shadows, He burns in the heavens like a tall candelabrum, Bearing upon his wings the dust between the stars. O soul, learn from the eagle To leave in the valleys all that is clay and longing, To soar toward Heaven through prayer and murmur, Borne by the Spirit, free and light!

I hear your name in the rain, in the wind passing through the window, and even if time carries us far apart, I still have you right there. I do not know if you still feel me, or if you have forgotten what once was, but I carry the same story within me, like a heart that cannot forget. I seek you in the stillness of the late evening, in the shadows falling over my thoughts, and every single time I understand that longing knows no end.