Woman: A Volcano in Silence

She who sits quietly,
does not merely breathe –
with every breath she swallows poison,
with every silence she buries a storm.
Her smile is not an ordinary mask,
she is a wound,
behind which lies a wounded soul
that dies every day –
without making a sound.
She says nothing,
yet in her eyes,
an entire ocean surges.
In every day’s smile,
years of screams are buried.
Inside her rages a war –
against herself, against time,
against hopes already broken,
and against relationships barely alive,
surviving only by name.
No one ever realizes,
that her silence is a scream,
a scream no one has time to hear.
She breaks,
yet never turns into ruins –
she endures,
yet is never called defeated.
She loves, too,
with complete tenderness,
and she suffers, too,
with an iron-like silence.
Inside her lives an icy fear,
and a lava-hot pain –
which she folds into her soul
every single day.
She is a woman…
the quietest cry in the world,
the most beautiful presence,
and the strongest silence."

Books speak.


They never call your name,
yet in every other line,
your face rises to the surface.

The dreams you once spoke of,
the silences of your defeats —
all are etched within this ink.

When I grow weary of waiting for you,
I take refuge in some old book.
It comforts me —


Sometimes I feel,
I myself have become a book —
one you began to read, but never finished.
And now I lie, closed, upon your shelf,
hoping you will return,
turn the pages again,
and complete the ones left unfinished.

I Am Not a Poet

I am not a poet,
Yet words stir restlessly in my soul...
I am not a poet,
But silences often turn into verses.
No stage, no applause,
Yet every night, I pour the whispers of my heart
Onto paper —
Like a fallen star
That gathers its own light.

I am not famous,
But the pain I endured
Echoes in every line.
I am not renowned,
But my emotions...
Are no less than a trembling flame.

I've learned —
Even in every break, there's a melody,
In every ache, a rhythm...
And hidden within every silence
Is an unfinished song.

I am not a poet,
Yet words flow from my fingers
Like tears bound in raindrops.
Now I refuse to stop.
I am not a poet...
But feelings don’t need the permission of a pen —
They only need a heart
That is true.