What should I have said?

While my dad used to said to me “only this education I can left you when I’m gone”, his dad had already sorted out how his grandsons were supposed to live. My wildest fantasies were mere chapters in books, his? they came from everything I think he saw. He taught me many things, even though we were mere kids. He showed me that the gap didn’t matter. That somehow, we could share the same dreams, despite the place from where we came…

From where he came everything was an option, and there was no for answers. I learnt that from him. I learnt many things from him. I thought he knew everything, but I was wrong. I forgot that from where he came, there is always a way to step back, be safe. Me? Well, you know…most of the time you only have one chance, and I never taught him that. I could have warned him…I thought he knew. Now, I know. He didn’t know. I learnt many things from him…and the only thing I knew I never share. Now I know it was not my fault…everyone can loss themselves. I lost him, I could have shown him…but I thought he knew.

\fruzti ’17

why don’t we lie better?

There was once this poet who studied things beyond what he deemed beautiful.
He looked at the stars the same amount of time as he heard the teaching of the masters. Educated but sensitive. Wealthy but humble. He aimed to be the sun and the moon, all at the same time.

One day, he asked his master “Is the moon dead?”. The master, perplexed by such a question, looked at his garden and exhaled. “How our goddess could be dead? She has a faint light that guides our steps at night. She swings the water at the shore to guard our sleep. She, truly, is a mother for us. No mother is dead. Not even in memory”.

After received the lesson, the poet went home to think over his master’s words. On his way back, the poet found a Buddhist monk, and asking the same question, he waited for an answer that appeases his mind. Once the monk listened to the words of the poet, and the answer of his master, he drew a small smile with his lips. He then asked the poet, “Do you know what Buddism says about life, oh young poet?”. The poet, versed in the Buddhist teachings, replied, “Life is just an illusion. All the statements about this world and what surrounds us are lies. Nothing more.” With these words, the monk bowed his head, signaling his departure. They cross paths no more.

That same day at night, the young poet, sitting under his mother’s peach tree, asked the stars, “If all of this is a lie, why can’t we just pick how lies work? Why not blossoms that don’t fall? Why not a moon that shines by itself? Why not have been together all along?”.

Ten years, the young poet left these poorly picked lies, wondering if in the next life they would be better selected.


and i was green

and then it hit me:
i was green; not blue nor pitch dark.

maybe, i was green
just to grow,
just to wither.

perhaps, just green enough
to inspire her,
to make her dream
but never to
make her be with me.

there are minds
that live in their own world,
beautiful and full of colors,
sadly, not intertwined

there are us
in our cocoon,
living in silence
in our own moon.

maybe i’m green,
meant to grow,
and to wither;
maybe, like green,
i was just not meant
for her sky, along with the stars.


van uw gezicht, vallen bloemen

Van uw gezicht, vallen bloemen
zonder een weg terug
en zelfs zonder uw bloemen in mijn handen
begrijp ik, ik ben niet de enige die alleen is
zelf als de bloemen vallen

Soms, vallen bloemen van uw gezicht
al zijn uw ogen dicht
kan ikĀ  de sporen niet zien
van de wolken in de zee.
Dat brengt me aan het denken,
waarom komt soms de wanhoop met de wind
en de bloemen met uw verdriet.

Op herfstavonden zwijgt uw eenzaam
om de bloembladen in hun val te aanschouwen
en om te bedenken wie de schuld heeft
voor de bloemen in uw geest.

Bloemen vallen van uw gezicht
zonder een weg terug,
en zelf zonder uw bloemen in mijn handen
met een zielsveel pijn begrijp ik
dat ik niet de enige ben die alleen is.

Soms, lieveling, zullen bloemen vallen,
de bloembladen zullen verloren zijn,
maar de aarde dat hen ontvangt
zou nooit onvruchtbaar zijn.

Van uw gezicht, vallen bloemen.
Het spijt me, lieveling,
als ik uw herfstwind ben geweest
en uw bloembladen heb weggenomen.