Out of control is the time
my body speaks to me
it says
You are not a boy
Your son is boy
Sleep old man


We are still here
After all this year
In the winter 
In the summer
autumn and spring
They play their
And I now
an old man
Without any possessions 
are thrown around like a small
piece of paper in the wind

The gods are looking
the other way and
the outcome is almost

In a Kiev that might as well have existed one thousand years ago

Something very well written from Eastern Europe. Can recommend this besides that is not poetry

Natalia A.

I realized that outside of time, the Kiev that exists today and the Kiev that existed a thousand years ago is the same.

I also realized the other day that you need a glimmer of happiness inside you to be able to tell sad stories – so that you have perspective.

The act of telling itself is dependent on timing. It’s the wrong time to tell the story I am about to tell you.

Of course, it helps that it isn’t really a story. It’s just another pattern stitched somewhere on the sleeve of the universe.

In this pattern, I am younger and I am a blonde instead of a redhead. There is a hand holding my blond ponytail. That hand is twisted away by another hand.

It’s summer in Kiev, it’s a national holiday (or there was just a concert downtown, or football – right away, there are parts…

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No one

Someone is read my poems
they even likes it
Time passes I write
Trying to keep my
self together
Lonely is the path
That I am on
I was commanded to walk this path
by the history of my family
My confused ancestors 
My perplexed oncle
My neurotic mother
My selfish father
My perverted brother
My super neurotic girlfriend
My non existent boyfriend
And me myself and I

Sometimes at night I wake up feeling ill