Poems by ℵ (English)

Music Is Raining

Thu, 02 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Music is raining not where you wish, nor where you expect, but when the music stops, new “prophets” will be born. What’s just happened? —Nothing, and yet, this time, the story runs in reverse. May an abyss be greater than the Strait of Hormuz. May we look at the sea and let our existential questions find their answer there.

The Time of Music

Thu, 26 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

How many poets must die, love(?) before we're the ones to die in their graves? When life can be as brief as a song: below, touch the heart of Music; and above, Music will turn you into a million fragments of time across different lives. What is its life but a million times, below—the Earth, its pulse. What is its time? but a million lives, above—the soul, its god. Listen to its symphony, its days and nights, and you will be in every one of them; compose them, and you will possess its time and life. What's the myth of music but to break the sky of time and let all eternity fall through itself —if every story’s heart can become the heart of music, every story can be eternal. But, how many poets must die, my love? And what's dead if we touch every sky?

Where Distance Begins

Sat, 21 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

How much distance can live within a language? The one we choose to express ourselves, if there is more than one. One day, poetry will remember her mistakes. Not yet. At night— a memory becomes distance into more distance. Indeed, the question remains; is not human distance the distance a language holds: the first is felt, the second? eroding whatever lies in between.

At Night

Thu, 19 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

What is truth, love? love, love, love —you write— suspicion is this rose, just like her: lies in promises. What is a lie, love? the same question, betrayed too late. Hiding in the night, the ancient moon recites the evernight to come. Yet when her darkness surpasses the unnameable, every night will be hers. So, what will be, love? Her shadow, lies in invoking who she really is. The truth, love? Write and all nights are yours.

A Small Poem

Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Who captivates whom? Once gone, one never returns. Fly or die like a butterfly in time, like the newborn glow of night, or the horizon’s eyes. How small a poem may be? If you are the one whose verses remain when you leave.

The Unforeseen

Wed, 04 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

When the heart doesn’t stop for anyone anymore there is a reason why it does —why? It was that vertigo whose words broke her heart’s walls; there, a tear falls, heavy, burdened with her grief. Indeed, that wound beat in spirals and became a shattered mirror where time was nothing but fragments drawn into her tension’s shadow. But he hardly stopped, trying to reach his end. And again, another tear falls. Another follows. There was no reason —there wasn’t. Yet their hearts rose once the nights of their depths met.

Kafka's Forbidden Poems IV

Sat, 14 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Your name on my shoulders; around your waist, the next crime. Lovers, their throats cut on the table witnessing a romance’s eternal recurrence. My battle, over your eyes; You, raising my war past the shadows' echo. Lovers: stellar jealousy made of star-shattered hearts; crystals forging the grammar of defeat, cutting through the river of the fallen. to summon a theater with neither fate nor victory; its curtains open, to open a new spectacle. But here, in my world, everyone is an enemy, they love and they hate; in yours, it’s half love and half hate. So then, what crystals cut the table for two who never make a losing move? If we don't spill our own, but others’ blood. You, whom I can neither win nor lose. yet your voice reassembles fragments into an echo that screams two clashing destinies: conquer and surrender, prevail and fall; both, in the same breath. And finally confess it: your lovers —are all I desire.

Secrets

Wed, 14 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Secret is the unrevealed. “We are that secret” is a binding. To whisper it is to seed its passage. And so it can be rewritten as: “we are the key to a binding, an unsealed longing that opens in the space of two, today hunting its denouement; hunting one another.”

Militar

Tue, 13 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

To flirt with a black hole and let your coquettish spirals clatter [like bells]. If it isn’t a moan,no, it will be an exhaled1 metaphor, the warm center/heart of your mouth. If you were more than a game, your craved cold curves of words, these—or not these— would be sighs of «I forget to breathe them» True? No. No. A lie. And look at them, written they are. a make-it-explicit for me without saying it, laid open, and forbidden, like fugitives, fled from lips lips aflame and silenced, that drown their horizon. 1 In Spanish, espiradas sounds close to espiral (“spiral”), even though it means “exhaled.”

Impossible Loves (Pre-Romance)

Sat, 03 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

What if seduction were not the desire to seduce, and that’s the reason we fall? A tango taking place on the lip of an abyss, where vertigo breaks loose just a heartbeat before the final step, performed with sly treachery, though betrayed, that step—only that step— would lead her back to your lips.

Two Demons

Fri, 02 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

No two demons will damn their passion; tempting one another, between their palms a new language they will find, with laughter dancing in their treason’s belly: their breasts, veiling their fire; their hair, breathing sighs against their cheeks and their eyes, becoming the shadow of a singular angel. Accomplices, their hearts, levitating, will make their fires dance. their wings, covered in wind; their arms, of flesh, subjugated by brushings of skin and their hunger to conspire. What will they do —once their passion is set free— and what will they say, after, naked, they conjugate their thunder: their lies, dressed in secrets; their scars, intimate, plowing through the body’s memories; their hands, holding each other over an abyss; their legs, lingering beyond their original promise: from a brazen sky, where one would fall and the other would outlive him; to a horizon of sky frozen with fire and a hell of fire frozen.

Forbidden were their lips, with words they invented, made of substance, soul, and fire:

She —her voice— close;

He, longing to recite her with bites that would murmur, “Your wings fly over me,” far away, where war descends along both necks, until it surrenders to the eternity of being fallen demons, among themselves, their past; toward an entwined future of mortal bodies with an end.

And You?

Thu, 25 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

—What hue is your soul?— Of cold winter, icy blue-white or visceral rime. Of wind, if mist falls down hell’s sheer cliffs; or volcanic ice, when its abyss is carved across the forbidden. Of paradise, or star-forged instants against your mouth’s sky, dark, as the light drowns and forgets to breathe it: gone downriver out of the soul.

Metaphor

Sat, 20 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

You and the sea: you, the metaphor, and the sea transcending you. Desperate within our inner ocean, we forge language after language love, desire, color, ideas, and so on. How do we go beyond its horizon? You can’t say it. You can’t, metaphor.

Rules

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Dress is dress; everything else is no-dress: a new war. When one tightens, the other slowly undresses. The slit in the skirt is where b t b b t i e b y i e the untold fantasy begins.

Fantasy (Never)

Mon, 15 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

You’re already written; allegory of cowardice. She longs to tremble again only enough to dream knowing her fate is, and will remain, stone. She is the fantasy of never daring to tempt her immovable ending in a world where eternal romances only live in books —and no one outlives them. Her story is a clause of marble in the throat of time, signed before fantasy had a name. Always on the same page, she reads the mirror for what cannot be said: the unwritten between the lines.

Nightfall Page

Sat, 13 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The white page is the night hidden inside the night. Nighten it to wake its labyrinths: it darkens, within, further within; words fall like leaves into abysses of timeless autumn. Erode my thoughts until the weeds destroy the labyrinth, and its leaves conceal its ancient meaning to reveal a new one to me. Then its words will be born. What was the last thing, who was the last person, to make you think?

The Time of a Memory

Thu, 27 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Ceasing to find each other in space is the beginning of what no longer is. If we also drift apart in time, far beyond it, we will understand its end: that it was already being written, deep, within us, toward its ruin. And its memory begins: what finally ceased to be when we read it in the shadow of a reflection that will fade until it turns empty black, the darkest black beyond return.

Kisses of Never and No One (IV)

Fri, 24 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

What nights must have written your soul to make you wish to raise ruins over a celestial museum with no horizon? Deep is the night that unmade you, so you could witness our end from below. Beats the stroke of no one when no one invokes her name, and he draws it—of absent heart. He doesn’t know, doesn’t remember since when he has stood at the center of the storm; or since when his hand no longer trembles. He crosses the center and he invokes his new deity: No One, she. The circle begins to close, though late: today the center is a rim that slips away and frees him from it. We are ruins and kindling for his fire; and the threat of his yesterday turns inevitable: he is already writing only for her: Temple of Music— her tomorrow. Each heartbeat opens impossible doors, and the Ancients do not understand that he is writing his tomorrow by the time they come to know they will already have gone, fused, into a forever—he and she—: a temple with a new goddess, bronze throat, golden bow, the soul of a subject in ruins. It is not an ancient prophecy, it is his final fate: We, statues of another time: he is leaving us, we melt into one, into all, into nothing, only to survive his next storm. What are we?—you asked. And Music wrote his name: You, who look at us from her beyond, what are you?—she sang to him.

Geopoetic

Wed, 15 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

She, each river crossed, swears it into a pact of night with night, and her mark on the other. The map is no lung —she breathes it; nor the country, [a] border —she makes it real; nor the city, [a] heart —she makes it beat. If she had them —map, country or city— they’d all look the same when she wakes them from their dream. If she did not have them —dreams— life of stars beneath the sky, and —breathe her— she barefoot, —make her real— naked of sun, —beat her— dressed in moon.

Caught Within (Oil of Jealousy V)

Mon, 06 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I am on the edge, on the edge and above my own abyss, caught in the recursion of this never-desire. And if I could kill it, I’d say that not desiring it would be enough. Then, stop! Why this ambivalence of the heart? If a desire is irresoluble, I would escape from it by simply not biting into it, and be free of you and her, wouldn’t I? The only kiss, the one that makes desire rise is the one that departs, in haste or not, and slips from your lips until their absence is sure. I am every woman, every one, except her. The soul’s composition was always a canvas empty, awaiting its destiny: to be colored. Interest became a Minotaur, that incited me to cross you. Your heart against mine is a battle with no fields and no time. There will never be, yes, never, two paradises alike nor two desires the same; since nothing and no one are born from the same fire.

Musical Synesthesia

Fri, 18 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Because it seizes the whole helm of the melody and raises the level of the sea. It relies on itself to become storm, chaos, waves, vessel and night. But also shore, land, sky, mountain, and home. It swings freely preserving its endless flow fusing all worlds into one. The piano are words and does need them. The violin is emotion and doesn’t need them; its texture is like the fine sand on the shore and the piano is like the wind that embeds the sand in your skin. The piano are jumps between points in space; and the violin are their threads. The piano has colors and are static; and the violin has a spectrum and is alive. If the piano is synchronicity, the violin is its absence; and, even having it, you cannot capture it, you cannot define its movemen but you can feel it. The violin is the voice of instruments because it is soprano voice. You can feel its colors tracing your whole being, from emotion to emotion. Sometimes, the melody descends from the highest place and falls and falls and falls; and other times, it rebels and reverses it all, ascending without a doubt, as if it were inverting the very essence of its own. The violin is to close your eyes and perceive it within you. It’s to smile because it’s moving through you and believing it is the only possible return to a known emotion—our past.

Absent of words its color remains: comes back, moves, and feels. Words of non-words are its melody. Close your eyes and without seeing, you see it.

End of Journey

Mon, 30 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

First I will brush the sky, before I turn it into glass; I will, I know I will: touch it, just for an instant. And the sky shall be— it shall be traitorous blue— witness of the blood, wounds on my fingertips; then it’ll cry sky-red clouds. Earth that wiped out my soul: it is a destiny, is! a promise I shall inscribe, all my hell versed over it. And when I’ve culminated it, I will shatter its horizon. And verse-crystal-blood will rain upon you. And it shall pour, it shall pour blood, and pour verse, and shall pour crystal on both of us.

War

Sat, 17 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

All the war I wage war. All the war I write: word by word I inscribe the war. To go to love, or to make you war; war that love makes of you, love that goes to war.

The Blackout

Mon, 28 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Monotony will return, unannounced. with the dawn of clocks emptied of hours in archaic pauses as if borrowed from another time, Today, the sun’s vigil lasts a single day. Noon-night knocks at my door, and nearby, sunrise happens; dark trails laid bare, luring the rags I wear, with your heart’s throbbing fervor blooming between your thighs: you push me, then you float above me; and the moon slips into your hips. You come after me, I come after you, then you seduce me with the falling of your mountains, quakes and candles, and flickers with bites of warmth. I begin to pour, and I make you hurry, but you slow me down, and we repeat the poetry. The world goes on, there, in darkness, where you pull me through, you gesture toward a park, you hint at its bushes, and there too. —Where are we?—you ask. —Hmmmmm… Dead streetlamps, flowers that don’t understand. Ice-cream desserts melting down their meaning, their heat, our heat, where we burn up. You light my cigarette, steal it from my mouth, and smoke it yourself. You crawl; you spill, you spread, you widen. Then you insist I go for those stalactites—mine—you say melting like an ice-cream cone: a grotto in a vertical plunge, and I jump to avoid the downwards that are really upwards, of riverways and trails still unexplored. Your center over my mouth, your thighs levitating my cheeks, your breasts over my belly; and we spin without spinning. I scent the wildfire of your skin. You dance over my darkness, and I over the dark in you. Drops on stalactites, or flowers, of sky-blue rain, or white, or black, what do we know of colors, today, without light. You move, and you move the queen. —Check, for what? —We were playing chess—you tell me. I suppose so. I move, and I move the king, unmaking you, undoing you. And we begin from scratch. I serve you iced coffee over rose-tinted grounds, roasted, from silky shoulders I drink from. And I get even. You boast. Revenge. And you return. —Do you smoke? —you repeat, again —What are these cactus thorns doing on my lips? —Lips? Which ones? —Whichever you prefer. And the light finds its way back illuminating the whole disaster that tomorrow will need cleaning. —Ah, do you have any salt? —I do. —And I’m sorry, but I don’t have a typewriter, we don’t live in the nineteenth century.

Iff we are shadows

Tue, 14 Jan 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Shadow after shadow inside the poem I unveil your core crossing its mystery here but there I draw you:

shadow

center of no one whether I don't know yet if it will exist. When everything that is, iff we’ll not know, iff it’ll be disintegrated, iff there will be no love in its timelessness, and we will be left inside steles that will be gone; wow, what poems, you, when you write inside them: “Hablará por espejos, Hablará por oscuridad Por sombras Por nadie.” And still knowing it, you sentence: “nadie es del color más profundo”

Moon

Sat, 16 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Seek the sweet frozen crushed moon; and there visit, not its place, but its Time: its indivisibility, its insolubility; the undecidability of this absent era that knows neither who nor what it is. Inhabit a crystal of time; wanting to remain under the light of its crystal structure written in its time and space; and there tempting its perpetual interior to know oneself language of infinite horizon. Speak to a phenomenon wanting to be quantum crystal; and there believe us metaphor of a diamond eternal, periodic and intact that will survive our ruins, ruins written in runes ᚨ, inhabitants of the eclipsed face of a moon that feels anachronic; sweet, frozen and crushed: seek-ed; her–moon.

And, here, below, on Earth, crashing sirens against cliffs of red sky of verses stolen from the sea– rain fire of twisted clouds.

Tango

Mon, 05 Feb 2024 00:00:00 +0000

A pause, followed by a surge of conviction. Her dress, flowing free like a whirlwind. You take one step back, and in the next entwine. You push her away, yet she returns. Their steps part, only to converge again. She draws near, back turned, and rests her hand upon your neck. Another step, becoming a pause in itself. She lifts her leg toward the sky, you steady the other to raise her; her whole body. Now she floats; you spin her in the clouds and lay her back on the ground. She takes several steps, looks for you, pushes you away, and lets herself fall backward. Trust your response, and your counter-response. You give her a push. She goes but returns. And you hold each other’s hands to take up the dance, now as one.

Ironic

Tue, 01 Mar 2016 00:00:00 +0000

What irony is this that the ink is no longer black impersonal and foreign; but becomes red, yours, and scar—or wound.

Mistakes

Mon, 24 Aug 2015 00:00:00 +0000

It was that arrow that pierced your heel; you stumbled, and from that moment on you began to falter. One mistake. Two. Three. And another. You recognized the feeling and, before falling, steadied yourself. You remain standing, put weight on it, but the pain flares up. You refuse, you try, and you go down again. This mistake was not just any mistake. Crack.

Undone Music

Sun, 12 Jul 2015 00:00:00 +0000

Jump into the void, heart; hunt like an eagle, woman; love in silence, you. So what? If music is what you are and music is your guide, your destiny must be radiant. But neither destiny exists, nor the void is place for an abyssal fall Or fly, or die, musical demon.

Music

Mon, 06 Jul 2015 00:00:00 +0000

Let's start; from the beginning,

from the nothingness or with you,

drawing colors with music.

Can you feel it? It's the wind swirling over itself

and over your hair, that, like an angry note,

sails the sea, eroding the chaos

until turns it into pulsion. That's why you feel her;

and that's why, she, dances to you.

Boldness

Tue, 02 Jun 2015 00:00:00 +0000

To have your lips one sigh away, to invoke them and flee; to flee, to possess them. You know yourself impossible, with sweet kisses, riddled with doubts and uncertainties. Your desire? Unbreakable, whispered and theatrical. Like your fear: admirable. Don’t fear! —he shouted, raising a hearts-made dagger— you’re already dead.

Hell

Wed, 13 May 2015 00:00:00 +0000

Only God knows that if I look at you I catch fire. Only God burns when my hell is your fire. Only God knows that my hell is your heaven. Only God lies when I hate myself and I love you. Only God writes when his verses are the Devil’s.

Echoes of Art

Thu, 19 Mar 2015 00:00:00 +0000

Rhythm, inspiration, daring, even recklessness are sometimes nothing but an emotional impulse: a text, a song, a person able to draw people in and bend them to their will. The future is theirs; they belong nowhere for long and yet they embody the collective pulse. That’s why, to me, ideas spread only when sealed inside all of that. Maybe it’s art. Maybe it’s music. Maybe it’s you.

Agony

Sat, 14 Mar 2015 00:00:00 +0000

Love, I never found you. Dreaming, I lost my way, and in the void, you were there, on the crest of chaos, far away, amid mountains, wandering your own abyss. Don't you hear me scream? I’m not the whisper of your echo but a woman you must save. Ah! But you don’t exist, my voice drowns, and in the shadows, Always, You, vanish.

Enslaved Muse

Sat, 07 Feb 2015 00:00:00 +0000

Your freedom? chained; your wings? on the verge of being burned; and your crown? like a thorny wide-brim hat. God bless you, demonic angel. Because you are a muse enslaved.

No One Gonna Save You

Sat, 22 Nov 2014 00:00:00 +0000

Do you want me to drown silence in the sea? I’m talking about suffocating it, making it disappear; letting it drown under its own pressure. True, what I’m really speaking of is me. And I’m already exhausting all my reserves. Why? –I asked– why you want to see me die. I may have opened an impossible door, and now you point at me, wishing to see me fall Do you think to stir this hell is to survive? I don’t, and even if it gives me pleasure, All I feel is death right behind me, roaring and screaming at me all that I am: my fatality. I’m going, I tell myself, to bury all I ever was. Under my own eyes, I am no mythological warrior, only a man. And poor him, who knew how to win and lose at once. Stop! Poet of kisses you will never put into verse; to love is different from what you pretend to be You will never see Nothing, Everything, and No One rise as one Choose wisely, choose to live and not to die. Stupid human who believed that thinking was a lovely reason to exist. Ouch! You console yourself with nothing but yourself.

Anarchic

Wed, 29 Oct 2014 00:00:00 +0000

Change of course. Overacceleration. Chaos. No one at the helm. She was my favorite, complaining, in my palm, restless, asking me for more, dancer, inside me. You demand being I give you a hood and still you crave more. It is you: anarchic.

You

Fri, 18 Jul 2014 00:00:00 +0000

If you descend every step is one lower. Go down. But don’t forget: one step. Another. One more closer. You! Stop! Do you hear me?! Please! You’ve gone beyond me until forever ... ever ... echo ... K.O. ...

The Beginning: Music

Tue, 18 Mar 2014 00:00:00 +0000

You are like a beautiful coincidence, a wind that leaves my voice. after the flutter of your wings. My sweet butterfly effect, a singular devil’s fairy, with dark, reddish wings who, once the flight begins, screams she won’t come back. This wounded state, that I feel and don’t know what it is, I read as a dream written by Machiavelli from which you awaken, only to then, disappear.

Nowhere

Wed, 12 Mar 2014 00:00:00 +0000

You go so fast that you’re always the one who has to wait. And when you stop, no one understands your pauses— incongruous and long. Caught up with and surpassed, you come back to the world, shelve the existential crisis and, on a fresh sigh, you leave everyone behind. But this time was different: so far you went, so far, that even if you stop, you know it: the only thing left is to write in solitude, because no one knows how to get to nowhere.

If I think of you, you must exist

Sat, 15 Feb 2014 00:00:00 +0000

From the erotic to the sensual, while I weigh taking you beyond. You, oneiric character, whom I undress as desire rises. She is me, or so I attempt, scarlet girl, whom I strip of clothes on a Friday, night of words, where I drink so I can imagine you, once more. Between my fingers, I hold you a whole undoing; me, you, or her a princess dispossessed of her crown, as the music drives the tempo and clothes are torn away. Erotic sketch, of precious breasts; and feet trapped within your colorful heels. Your neckline, already nonexistent to my eyes, lit up the party that later became your cage. You drew a thousand eyes with every step, but now you’re more than just mine. I undressed your intelligence and you, fatal elixir, what every other gaze failed to dare, to steal, to sin; my philosopher, sexy in her very being. That after: “I think, but I don’t necessarily have to exist”, you Mount of Venus slips into existence. Ah. Stop thinking now. Eroticism was always your intelligence, and here you have me, naked, seeking passage through your body, a body that doesn’t necessarily need to exist, does it?

ħ

Wed, 28 Aug 2013 00:00:00 +0000

And shadows come and go. True: darkness never comes before there has been day; nor is there any sense in seeking light where there can be none. But in a place where day will never come, and where there can be no light, I only carve a vague sense of being. Out of breath, but at peace; of needing you, yet needing me. A feeling, without understanding, I go on, and you go on with, in a place I can’t draw into existence for you, so you could ever find your way to me. I lied; and I did it from the very first line: here the shadows don’t come or go. You neither calm my pain, nor are you here, nor will you know how to find me! But dawn does come to your days, and you wait for me, alone, something you will no doubt regret. Never having arrived, you resign to finding us in a place where you are, but that I will not be able to reach. I close my eyes to draw you onto the dark, and so conjure a place that, without ever going beyond, will make your feelings into something I can guess, though wrong, arousing unease in you without meaning any harm. Then you demand answers, now, and for them I descend straight into hell. When I come back, I burn my whole reality down, and among the flames, for the first time, I can see you; touch you; feel the burning warmth of your body, and thus I can cross through your reality, imagined until now. To coexist: a strange, untrue sense I was forced to renounce. I’m sorry I had to burn your world, so as to show that I, not you, understand better what infinity is and what it is not to exist.