A poem is like driving a nail into a wall. The fewer strokes you need, the better. If it takes too long, or if your strokes are too complicated, the poem will fail. But what corresponds to the wall? The soul? Your heart? My inability?

These are two of my poems written in English:





I did not go with them

I did not fight with them

Nor did I cry

or starve

with them. But sure

a day will come

when I fall back

to let them resurrect

just from my toying box

to be their general


field marshal

thus loving them

thus killing them

for all those good things

wars have been made.


You survived.

Some day.

Some hour.


the descent of

bombers. Without

hungry cheeks.

The way to tram

along the broken corner.

The passage to bakery

long before


was set up.

Now let your




Parent page: Poems

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