There is just personal death
and collective continuum...

I wrote millions of poems for this little rose
and they still are not enough...

Why just in opposite can we unite
and tie...

From the futile war
remains tons of mutilated hearts...

There is someone out there
who reads all my poems...

Nothing fools one as
being unable to make...

I left you
to stay with you...

Victims of bygones,
the tyrants of tomorrows...

One cannot fathom
things that are too obvious...

All the languages belong to the same arbour
the two outlet bugles...

Green makes
the world...

Inspirations
are like birds...