Songs of the heart & mystical poetry
The lovers, caressed by the scent of the beloved, burn their books and maps! A longing heart is their guide. The blind mind missteps; the heart sees, then smiles and leaps. The pebbles sink to the bottom and watch the river dance forward, as the mind is baffled by the dance of the heart of the lover. … More The Journey of the Ink
Life moves the way vines do, quietly, patiently, winding where it can. Even when buried under concrete, it finds a crack. It doesn’t argue with obstacles; it learns their shape. Wise paths aren’t straight because beauty isn’t efficient. Much of what shapes us happens unbeknownst to us until one day we notice what has already grown around our bones. To live well is not to force the way, but to savor the tension and let what is alive find its own ascent. … More The Winding Vines
Some encounters do not happen in time or circumstance, but in meaning. Two lives cross, and suddenly the past rearranges itself, as if it had been waiting all along for this meeting to occur. What once seemed accidental reveals its pattern, and life awakens from a long, quiet sleep into coherence. … More Rendezvous in the Space of the Heart
In the dim halo around Babushka’s rocking chair, a man pleads for a single nod that will never come. His monologue drifts between heartbreak and the deeper terror of becoming irrelevant in a universe that refuses to speak. What unfolds is not a search for comfort but a confrontation with silence itself—the kind that swallows every question and leaves a man facing the truth that meaning is never given, only begged for, and rarely received. … More A Home Built on Quicksand
Everything and everyone is here; the names make them seem far away What’s gone, too, is here; we just call it “gone” and think it “gone.” What’s to come, has always been; we just call it “not yet” and think its name. Near and far, here and there, now and then: these are Its names, … More The Dance of Names
It is that time again, to give the master a visit. Drained by the drag of this swamp, starving for the holy company I must return once again to that blessed deathbed, so that I may sneak through the sliding door, and the clashing rocks, and re-emerge in the field where I am no more. … More It is that time again …
This veil! It is transparent, and the beloved in plain sight. But I am blinded by what I’ve taken to be seeing. There’s a seeing that shows and a seeing that hides. She is near and far, here and there, a yes and a no. She is my Mona Lisa. She is my Eroma. I … More My Eroma
It gives Itself in one form or another. Now as boring, now as exciting; often as dreadful, and sometimes as sweet and cozy. These are the many faces of infinity, and who knows why It gives Itself as It does! I have played in vain with the control knobs of this spaceship called human. What … More It Is Full of Empty
I wear a mask made of nothing, you don’t see it on my face but I feel it all the time. The story has it that I am hideous, but god knows who has that story! I wove the mask I wear with the labor of time; it is a conglomeration of conflicting stories teamed … More The Play of Masks
Logos is a threat to the intrinsic ambiguity of existence; it fragments an existence already shredded by time. Logos is the form-giving principle, and I despise form; but the lower soul despises form too, for it is only in moral and existential ambiguity of my Being that it gets to wallow in the filth of … More For the Love of Shadows
NOEMAYA 