The Executioner’s Axe

My speech for freedom was a success,

and thank darkness for a cloudy night.

For I could not afford a single soul to see my face as I stood,

de-masked above a dying crowd.


I roared about the actions necessary,

should we desire an end prettier than the starving crows…

though thus urging riot I simultaneously guaranteed a revolutionary’s final date with my counterpart’s sharp claws.


It seems to me that the powers which confine us,

are afraid as wild youth as it nears its end.

Natural life will always be the outcome.

What is up has got to fall; and isn’t that sometimes a reason to be quiet?


When one whose life is so alight that they react to their ‘nurture’,

they will burn a fire in the hearts of dead-men walking.


How this army will march united… I wish I live to see.

So that my eyes may dry and hate subside –

my axe no longer need divide,

my self in two as one who raises freedom and beheads it all the same.


My axe chips as does my soul whenever a revolutionary’s crippled.

This is how an executioner prays:





Heritage Day

Today is my last day


I manage to crawl off the bed that ceased to be coupled almost a decade ago

then land in my still relatively tiny bathroom, though my own physique seems to be shrinking by the second now

I look up at my reflection and I realise the purpose of mirrors

There is a headline,

my face

wrinkled and grey beneath its letters seems to unfold like an over ripe flower without ever having been touched

it says;

Heritage Day

I shuffle along until I trip over the now almost dry white board marker and I begin the list:

One: I inherited the dark lines of deceit off my mother’s core

Two: I learned how to live with being a liar

Three: I came as a foreign being full of love

Four: I was denied love but I’m still leaving filled with only those four letters

Five: Life was beautiful though the darkness is always the beginning of a new story

Six: I inherited the art

Seven: I will never forget


I rinse myself off and decide that it would be better to leave full of hope

After all

3 months before they expected me I was ready

13 years before I was

they weren’t

my family


The wardrobe whispered the call of majesty

I obeyed my longing eyes

past the dioors and my goodbye suit

I found the two letter phrase barely in disguise and I remembered why

Heritage day:

One: I learned how to judge myself better than anyone had ever judged me

Two: It wasn’t always sunny

Three: How to fake the smile through heartache

Four: How to cause the same

Five: My clothes are cheap

Six: I am unworthychocolat_l

Seven: I knew this each time we made eye contact… after all; we are self proclaimed judges


So neat, tidy and fresh I walk towards the lonely seat and the non functional tv

and on the top right hand corner of the screen

A phrase in white paint screams out at me

Heritage Day:

One: My skin colour murdered my first love

Two: I inherited the skill of not caring much for those attributes

Three: My father Died of a broken heart

Four: You saved mine

Five: Our life was puzzled together by vibes and muted sentences

Six: In the end, my quirks were irrelevant and your were my indica

Seven: I fell eternally asleep with the very thoughts that days and nights before had always haunted me.


Palm on palm now

My eye lids find their space

No tears left in me

My heritage day is eternal

and I only grew to know that the moment I looked into you!





A Story of A Blue Sun

Just a poem written for someone 🙂 very late one evening!


They said was what made the world red
And red being the color of love… meant that everything yellow
was good for a smile and a dance
But his color was blue
So he thought it true
When the world would tell him he couldn’t

One evening he slowly
headed for home after a long day of shining blue light on the world
he though to himself a miserable thought
that all was lost at bright yellow’s high cost
and about love he completely forgot
With his sad face on his chest
and a torn heart at his breast
he continued to walk on home

Until one day while shinning sadly on us
a stranger figure appeared before him
and she seemed to like his blue light
she told him that one day blue would take yellow away

His heart trembled gently
with wild butterflies in his sight
when she looked at his blue with her eyes
and such a surprise for the color of those eyes were so
and loving
and blue

so since that day
when any man says that yellow is the color of a true sun
he smiles broad and brightly
and holds his love tightly
and he says’
blue is the color of love”

For K.

Of Wood Nymphs and Samodivas

Nymph: (Greek: νύμφη, nymphē).

In Greek mythology a Nymph is a minor female nature deity associated with a particular location or landform. Nymphs are generally seen as divine spirits who animate nature. Usually depicted as beautiful, young nubile maidens who love to dance and sing; their amorous freedom sets them apart from the restricted and chaste wives and daughters of the Greek polis. They are believed to dwell in mountains and groves, by springs and rivers, and also in trees.


According to many sources including one very interesting essay extracted from the ‘Scientific Works of the University of Rousse – 2008, Volume 47, Series 5.3’; the myth of the Samodiva was born with the fall of the Bulgarian empire. According to this source the natives believe in the reality of once mythical maidens, but also seek a logical explanation to these legends. They believe that during slavery, groups of 3 women from every region in and around the Balkan areas fled into the forests and remained there.

In mid June when the young shepherds took their herds out, it was well known that young ladies would descend from the depths of the forest, to steal a man of their choice as their groom.

This groom however, was only kept until the end of August (According to Bulgarian folklore on August 29 of every year the sun would slice through the day and the night, making them equal).

Thereafter the young man was banished and sent back to his village partially because having to provide food for him as well was very difficult. Shortly after the groom returned to his village it is said that he would die from either a severe illness or depression. Hand in hand with the groom’s death goes the birth of his child (usually male). The child of a Samodiva apparently had extremely good genes especially concerning his/her physical attributes. The sons of these maidens grew with them until they were strong enough to be sent out as freedom fighters, the girls remained with their mothers in the forest and continued to preserve the bloodline.

Many of the great Bulgarian poets and writers (most of whom were freedom fighters) record various encounters with the Samodivas throughout their journeys. Their descriptions of these ‘deities’ are astonishingly similar to those of the Wood Nymph.

Keep in mind that I am not claiming the Wood Nymph and the Samodivas to be the same… I’m only pointing out that the theory of their existence is not completely farfetched.

As a Bulgarian, the myth of the Samodiva makes me extremely proud to be a woman. Five hundred years of hiding and breeding in secret, telling stories and remaining ‘wild’ and uneducated for the sake of preserving the blood line… No romance, just perseverance… it is no wonder that there is no written record of these times. During the Ottoman rule our alphabet was scarcely used… the poets and writers start springing up just before the fall of the Ottoman Empire and technically this makes us a relatively new country.

A new country with a deep history, a nation so closely linked to nature, so rich in mythology; a mythology that is being forgotten, when for centuries women and men sacrificed their lives daily just so that a Bulgarian would never wonder where he/she came from.

The point is that whether we are talking about Wood Nymphs or Samodivas, we should always try to go a little deeper and decide for ourselves whether mythology is really just a bunch of stories as many people perceive them to be.

‘I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge

That Myth is more potent than history

That dreams are more powerful than facts

That hope always triumphs over experience

That laughter is the only cure for grief

And I believe that love is stronger than death’ – R. Fulghum




Lull A Bye …continued

“How shall I sing and dance when you are dying?”

“Oh and what of it? Do people not die every day? I am only a person, a mortal artwork arranged in such a way to fall apart some day. Some careless youth my creator was that I should grow so weary when most beings of my time and maturity are merely in their prime.”

The gesture of her resting palm upon my cheek doubled and tightened, her eyes glittered still and I could see no sadness in them; none! I saw only a hushed, almost timid question.

“Have you no care to kiss me?”  Her head dropping with the outburst of that shyness in her eyes which now turned to a suppressed excitement.

“I do indeed love! I always have, but I see no use for I could never live up to an  ideal; you and I are like Eyre and Rochester and the ideal is such as Ingram. I cannot be more charming than I am and my lips are no softer than they seem. My heart you know better than anyone, my cheeks are not so pink and inviting as the ones you always would tell me you dream of. No! I do not wish to disappoint your dreams if tonight must be your last.”

She had always been the leader of this pair and so I followed her from veil to venous paths some of which were alive with active antelopes, ants and Apapanes whereas others were drowned in dull, deranged arrangements of branches lacking leaves or colour.

” You were my prime! When you first sought comfort in my embrace, and I rose to greet and tuck you in; I rose as a phoenix does form the dust of my deserted soul and I loved you instantly. I know very well the texture of your lips. Even you sometimes would give in to the midnight sleep and drift off for treasured minutes whilst pressing them on to the skin that covers that place between neck and this pair of yearning lips. I know the softness of your pale cheek as I’ve dared to  caress it whilst your lips left me burning with the new life and love I was given…”

[Website for this image:
Tired Girl Black and White Wallpaper Sketch]

” I wish you would be still! What right have you to tell me this now? I wish you had been silent for my love dies with you. I have no care to kiss you, nor do I have a care to listen. You murder me silently, leaving only my limbs to carry my head around. You speak of love as if you know the feeling intimately, yet I dare say; if you were so much as acquainted vaguely with it you would not have spoken thus to me. What hope shall I carry with me now? ”

“Have you no care to kiss me?”

…to be continued

Lull A Bye

There were trees and petite playgrounds upon which I spent my hours in search of the genius loci.

There were minutes that felt like hours and hours that felt like minutes, however the latter was a direct product of time spent with my person… the whiffs of quiet infant snores caused our imaginations to float off somewhere else while we tightened grip around each other and in this embrace whispered the night away. The places we travelled to in our fusion of creativity were… majestic, mirrored magic and were carefree, candy coated and colorful. Her imagination surpassed mine and always left me in awe of her knowledge, vision and passion.

There were forbidden places we liked to sneak in to when the midnight sleep seemed to cover the rest of the world yet it somehow (to our absolute pleasure) missed us. The graveyard just a few metres away, under the little hill we could see outside the institution’s dormitory; was our most favorite place to visit. The genius loci was not difficult to come across whilst in the comfortable, eerie space of the grave stones and vague descriptions of once living hearts. She loved to dance in the darkness while I would drift away into deep contemplation of what would happen to me if I were to ever lose her. Those were  nights we wished would last and those hours seemed to end in a motion. We would lock fingers and thus hand in hand our last steps would lead us right back to our little beds.

The sun always brought with it a quiet discomfort and a pain that pierced through my very soul. The days dragged as we played our roles accordingly, stiffly yet convincingly and no one knew just how much I loved her.

That morning no theatrical skill could aid me for my person (I could see) was weak , ill and fragile. I wondered if our play time at night had not tired her out to such an extent and in turn made her so sickly. She took my hand that instant as if recognizing the guilt which had at once consumed the short stature that was my being  and she quietly lured me away from the crowd of uniformed girls . No one noticed. Once again it seemed as though the world could not see us or hear us and I was glad.

We walked down a small path I had not visited previously. It wove in between worlds… between green and grey, gold and gutter, ghost and grave in between flesh and soul. It seemed to take us out of our own existence into another realm and then gently with every other step the genius loci would place us right back into our current selves.

Presently we stood under a waterfall and her hand reached for my face. This gesture had never been attempted before; I felt as if all the air had left my lungs as her gentle palm now rested against my cheek, our eyes locked… hers glittering as if the sun’s rays reflected directly off them.

“Tonight my little heart you will sing while you lull me good-bye!”

“What shall I sing?”

My voice was hoarse as I tried to melt the lump in my throat which had lodged there with the realization of the present circumstance. She always spoke of the next world, the next life as if they were lurking around the corner and I realized that they really were.

“You shall sing a song about happiness and dance a butterfly dance for me.”

… to be continued