As long as I am here, locked up in my own misery, I might do as well as to try to humour you with a poem I made years ago.

Your Words

If I'd allow them enter,
unlikely as it is,
would them be able
to wipe away
these ever changing shades
of agony and dreariness?

If I'd ever let them in,
through my gloomy entrance,
would I be not
too curious to see them
turn ashes from my touch.

And if I'd ever let you hear
even the hint of my dark reveal,
wouldn't it be gross,
not only unworthy of your time,
but an offence against your ears.

If I'd ever let your near,
you'd probably pour soft words on me
quietly as the sun speaks
amid the shady basswoods
to deeply depressed seeds,
blinded by the dark soil's ceaseless retreat.


There was some speculations about me having any literary giftedness. Well, now it's proven. No, not any at all.