I'm afraid my stories might be stolen as I learned from  from THE WRITER, magazine. I didn't sign any contract with a copyright agency yet. (Ha-ha!)

Instead of them I'll let you read a few of my poems that I translated into English. I hope you'll enjoy them. I like them.


I've lost 
my poems 
sprinkled by the tears 
presoaked by sorrow 
and rich metaphors 
don't want anymore 
to abuse
my body 
with meditations 
theoretical experience 
driven to despair 
I'm thirsty for life, not 

Chicago 2001


Not a prophet I am

Dedicated to Len


Youíll be ruined,  I tell myself

If you continue to dream about the palms of a man

Touching your breasts, smoothly stroking your back

Youíll be ruined I tell myself

If you continue to fall for the books

Written by frauds with overdried feelings

With lust for fairy flights of the soul

That swallows the beauty of earthly concerns

 I will not be ruined I tell myself

Flowers donít blossom in winter, Iím not eighteen

The refrain of a song

I heard somewhere in the centuries

Chatters slowly between my temples

From now on Iíll name as hellish

All the imagined truths of the world of strangers

Will  I be ruined? Not a prophet I am

The dream of your hands overpowers me. 

Chicago 2001