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He never touched you.

Yet you linger in him

like the scent of damask rose in forgotten temples,

or the shadow of lotus petals

pressed between the pages of a life unlived.

You weren't given,

nor claimed,

but you remain

as Persephone remains between two worlds,

half spring, half surrender.

He sees you

in the gold-threaded robes of Isis,

mother of the hidden,

protector of what cannot be possessed.

You, soft as jasmine at dusk,

yet dangerous as the bloom of belladonna,

a beauty he could never hold

without trembling.

His logic is iron.

His mind, a fortress.

Yet inside,

you bloom like Freyja's garden in Asgard

wild, untamed,

known only to the gods and the ghosts

of those who once dared to love.

He remembers you

in the absence of touch

how your voice would've sounded

saying his name.

Not as a woman made of earth,

but like Aphrodite rising from seafoam,

untouchable and immortal in her effect.

He walks through the world

wearing your memory

like a garland of hyacinths—

invisible,

but fragrant enough

to undo his certainty.

He calls your name in thought

only when Hermes isn't listening.

Because you were not a prayer

you were the echo of something already sacred.

You are not his.

You were never his.

But in the sacred ache

between Odin's wisdom and Hades' restraint,

he worships what he cannot claim.

And so you became

his unseen Nemesis

not to punish,

but to remind him

that even gods must kneel

before something they cannot keep.

You are the iris that opens at midnight,

the secret grove behind his ribs,

where he returns not for peace

but to remember what almost was.

You are his

without being.

Dear gentle reader,

Beneath the pale moonlight,

I have entered your dreams

and whispered softly

the legend of soul ties.

Slowly, you step beside me.

Hungry eyes gather in the distance.

The reality swallowing us whole

is nothing but a forgotten battlefield.

Your razor-sharp gaze is captured.

There, among dozens of rotting corpses,

stand two figures suspended in silence,

like the final pillars of a fallen temple.

The first— a broken priest.

Wounded, endlessly praying,

his trembling hands, his crooked fingers,

still searching for a fragment of mercy.

The second— a gentle demon.

Waves of warmth orbit around her.

Her sapphire eyes remain fixed upon the horizon,

calmly gazing into the endless dark.

You see them, don't you?

Remain still.

Obedience is the key.

Watch closely,

for what you are about to witness

will unsettle the deepest parts of your soul.

She senses the priest's sorrow

rising above the dead surrounding him.

His misery speaks louder than words.

"Take my hand," she whispers.

"Drink from my waters.

You have exhausted your strength

for far too long."

"My fair lady... my endless cup of hope...

How could a poor soul like mine

ever deserve to reach you?"

Like distant constellations,

their paths collide.

He drinks fiercely from the source of her light,

while she willingly holds him close,

believing compassion alone

can heal what time could not.

"How can this be?

Have I become blind

or simply mad?"

"Silence.

Ask yourself what you're truly seeing.

The truth stands before us.

It is only hidden

from those unwilling to look."

What feels like thousands of years pass.

The priest and the demon

begin studying one another.

One— cold as forged steel,

calculating,

entirely ruled by the mind.

The other— guided by razor-sharp intuition,

profound empathy,

and quiet emotional wisdom.

Again and again,

the priest manipulates, betrays, wounds,

engraving new scars into her soul.

Again and again,

the demon forgives.

Once. Twice.

Until—

something clicks.

The pattern reveals itself.

The spell dissolves.

She stands perfectly still,

frozen in time, calculating,

without anger, without reaction.

Holding every advantage,

she prepares her departure

in absolute silence.

She could have struck him down.

She could have carved wounds

deeper than those he had ever known.

But she finally understands.

This is no wounded soul.

This is a predator.

Her sapphire eyes become crystal clear.

And then—

she goes supernova.

The script shatters.

The roles reverse.

For the first time,

the priest chokes on fear.

He was clever.

Subtle as a serpent.

Yet painfully predictable.

She had always seen beyond the mask.

She understood him

better than he understood himself.

For the depth of her empathy

could only exist

because it mirrored

the depth of her own darkness.

And his downfall

would become far worse than hell.

"He searched for golden nectar,

yet stumbled upon an unknown creature."

The dead begin to vanish,

laughing into the wind.

The battlefield collapses

into an endless abyss,

opening its ancient mouth.

"Poor little priest...

At last,

you have shaken hands

with your karmic mirror."

It happened on one blue day

when my petals were bruised,

and my spirit almost hung itself,

no longer bearing the weight

of being an immortal light source

in a time of forgotten prayers.

I was nearly weeping

not in storms that swallow the world around me,

but in the language of scorpion grasses at dusk

soft, bowed, barely blooming.

He came like a gentle comet,

not as a man,

but as the guiding Hermes

a smile, soft as sacred crocuses,

carrying no judgment,

emerging from a cold land,

gently touching the unopened bud

of my fragile sorrow,

just to remind me:

someone still sees.

Then came the embrace

two arms wrapped around

like vines of honeysuckle

entwining the walls of my cold cathedral of solitude

with warmth and grace:

a tulip and hyacinth embroidery.

I did not flee from that sacred place,

not because I forgot Eros,

but because I remembered Persephone,

longing for the sun,

wandering through labyrinths of wonder

even in Hades' hasty gentleness.

But guilt arrived

on a shocking wave of pain,

measuring the weight of my heart

against a moment I did not ask for

nor did I deserve it,

yet I allowed it.

Not ashamed for desiring a mortal feeling,

but for that pale flicker of bloom

that rose inside my crimson heart

and dared to face the sun.

Yet even so,

I crossed no sacred boundary,

and kept my faith to Hera's vows

my trembling hand bore no corruption,

only the scent of oleander.

Now I return

to the sacred garden I tend with care,

to the altar of my chosen love,

where trust grows like lavender

at the gates of devotion.

He saw me unguarded,

but I see myself whole again

a celestial being reborn beneath the stars:

not untrue or disloyal,

only open,

only tender,

only alive.

They descend not wearing velvet robes

stitched from honest stars,

but garments woven

from borrowed halos,

perfumed with white lilies

that never knew their roots.

They speak of stillness

as though silence were a temple;

of gentleness

as though mercy were a language

their sweetened tongues remembered.

They sell the purest serenity

like merchants beneath eclipses,

placing peace

upon polished altars,

asking only

for another soul to kneel.

Do not mistake

the absence of thunder

for the absence of venom.

Some serpents

have learned

to hiss between prayers.

Some abysses

have memorized

the vocabulary of light.

Beneath their gardens

grow neither jasmine nor magnolia

only moonlit pitcher plants,

their chalices open,

sweet with impossible nectar,

waiting for exhausted butterflies

who mistook hunger

for kindness.

There,

the blossoms bloom inward.

Petals become sharp teeth.

Fragrance becomes slow-wave sleep.

Roots become shackles,

coiling around ankles

too hopeful

to question beauty.

They preach stoicism,

yet harvest every trembling heart.

They praise compassion,

yet count mercy

only when it is bleeding.

They glorify forgiveness,

because forgiven wounds

are easier to reopen.

I have seen them—

keepers of immaculate orchards,

watering white roses

with borrowed sunlight,

while beneath the soil

countless sunflower corpses

lie hollow,

their gold devoured

to adorn another mask.

They call themselves shepherds.

Yet wolves have always known

how to imitate

the patience of snowfall.

The oldest predator

is not rage,

it is tenderness

performed

without a soul behind it.

In the deepest caverns,

where no dawn enters,

the ancient serpents

shed not their skin,

but their faces.

Each new smile

another immaculate prophecy.

Each embrace

another silent eclipse.

And those

who truly carry light

never ask

to be worshipped.

They bloom quietly,

like wild chamomile

between forgotten stones,

asking nothing

except stillness.

For real gardens

never hunger

for the sunflowers

that seek shelter.

Only carnivorous flowers

measure love

by what remains

after the petals

have disappeared.

So when they speak

of peace,

look beneath their roots.

When they preach

stillness,

listen for the bones

buried beneath the moss.

And when they promise

to save your sugared soul,

watch,

whether their shadows

lean toward your light,

or away from it.

For the oldest false prophet

was never the loudest.

He whispered

like rain upon marble,

held out

a blossom without scent,

and smiled

while somewhere,

far beneath the earth,

the abyss

opened its mouth

like a flower trap.

I see myself through your onyx-moon eyes,

reflecting lifetimes beneath their dark, still surface.

I hear echoes of my past self in your voice,

soft as falling petals

a resonance of storms I once weathered.

I have walked nearly the same sacred path

though you move swifter than the wind,

speak with the thunderclap of Athena's shield,

and shine brighter than Apollo's first light.

Once, a quiet child,

afraid of the voices of angry birds,

haunted by monsters who wore mortal skin,

now stands like a mountain in stormlight

shaking stone, breaking iron,

unfolding wings carved from suffering.

Power rests within your heart.

You just have to set yourself free

and rise above your painful ashes

as the phoenix is always reminding us:

even darkness serves the bloom.

And with glory and grace,

it rises from the ugliest hell

a constellation redrawn across the sky

for others to witness and remember:

the girl once silenced

is now myth,

is now sovereign.

That pure soul, once wingless,

wove galaxies with trembling hands,

built a world from garden bones

and broken lullabies.

A kingdom rooted in empathy

and crowned with wild roses.

Here, laughter rings like chapel bells.

Here, loyalty is the highest spell.

And respect towers like golden pillars,

engraved with the names of those who dared to become whole.

No damsels here

only queens of the flame,

warrior-poets in velvet armor,

keepers of sacred fire and gentle law.

This is not just a dream.

It is a place to call home.

Simt a iernii rece gheață,

Șoptindu-mi vag și cu dulceață

Cum mă-ndeamnă să visez

Și-un ultim portret să-i pictez.

Precum un sacru jurământ,

Îi aud vocea sus, în vânt,

Și, după multe lupte crunte,

Eu pic lat pe-acel lugubru munte.

Stau, ascult și bag de seamă:

Geru-mi cântă cea din urmă gamă.

Fără vlagă, treptat devin greoi

Și-ntrezăresc priviri de moroi.

Oare îmi joacă mintea feste?

Sau au primit și ei de veste

Că-n aceste ceasuri de tortură

Cu greu mă zbat la ultima pictură?

E ger, și albul mă completează,

În ochi, marea ceață se instalează.

Cu-n gest final, cam dureros,

Închei acest portret tăios.

Sunt o poveste,

A inimii tale,

O floare ce crește,

Cu mii de petale.

Sunt cântec de dor,

Al iubirii pierdute,

Un câmp de mohor,

Cu flori necrescute.

Sunt lacrimi vărsate,

Din ochii-ți fierbinți,

Clipe deșarte,

Și lungi rugăminți.

Sunt doina de jale,

Din sufletul tău,

Frunza, ce-n cale,

Ți-o cântă mereu.

Sunt mersu' înainte,

Poteca, cărarea…

Icoanele sfinte,

Ce-ți plâng supărarea.

Sunt umbra la umbră,

Înger de pază,

Iubirea ce-ți curmă,

Tristețea ce-oftează.

Un trandafir ...

Nu pot să îl admir 

Să-l privesc ?

Mă îndoiesc 

Dar nu pot să -l părăsesc

Aş putea să -l dăruiesc...

Fetei pe care o iubesc

Dar nu ştiu cum să îndrăznesc 

Ar fi ceva nefiresc

Să nu pot să reușesc

Pe ea să o întâlnesc

Și să-i spun că mă gândesc 

La al ei suflet îngeresc...

Crezi că n-ai iubit vreodată

Cum pe ea o mai iubești.

Dulce, caldă și-adorată

Ca și floarea ce-o privești.

Seara când te culci și somnul

Ce se așterne peste gene,

Tot la ea îți zboară gândul

Și tot sufletul tău geme.

Ai dori să fi covor de flori

Ea mereu pe el să se-aplece.

Zvonul în spectru de culori

Ca să spună cine o place.

Pe cer luna palidă te-mbie

Luminoasă să o privești.

Păsărelele te-ncântă,

Ciripind să tot iubești.

Dară toate trec pe lături

Fără chiar să vezi că ochii

N-au zărit că sunt alături,

Și gândind, te prind iar zorii.

Să știi că am adus și astăzi flori 

Și pus pe masă în aceiași vază, 

La tine-mi fuge gândul și visez 

Chiar dacă soarele e la amiază. 

Privirea mi se duce pe-un tablou 

Și amintiri frumoase-mi răscolesc, 

De cât de fericiți eram pe-atunci 

Și cât de mult puteam să te iubesc.

Nu știu de ce răceala ne-a cuprins 

Și înghețat a noastre sentimente, 

Iar când iubirea a devenit străină 

Geaba am semnat noi documente. 

Ce greu a fost să ne găsim cândva 

Și ce ușor ne-am spus la revedere, 

De-abia când ai plecat am înțeles 

Că singur pe pământ...este durere. 

Acum când timpul este...trecut 

Și doar prezentul mai contează, 

Nu-mi mai rămâne decât să spun

Asteapt-o și chiar de-i zi...visează!

Tată ai uitat de noi!

Am rămas doar noi în doi.

Stropiți cu gunoi,

Vopsiți cu noroi.

Din cînd în cînd aruncăm cîti-un zîmbet greoi,

Cu ochii îndurerați și moi.

Atacați zi de zi de ploi,

De parc-am fi la război

Unde gloanțe vin roi...

Unde ești plecat cînd avem nevoie d-eroi.

Toți ne mîzgîlesc ca pe foi,

Că-s la suflete mai puțin plini mai mult goi...

Fără de-a ști că noi înc-așteptăm să vină joi,

Cînd o să dăm timpu-napoi,

Să te vedem înc-odată vioi,

Dar ei nu-nțeleg c-au inimi de cioroi...

De pe cer as lua o stea 

Sa o pun în palma ta 

Sa iti spun cât te iubesc 

Nu vreau sa te părăsesc 

Esti ca o floare de cais 

Ca un fluture în vis 

Esti răsărit în miez de vara 

Te vreau în fiecare seara 

Ochi frumoși ca marea 

Când vine inserarea 

Ca ma cuprinzi usor 

Suflet plin de dor