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Short stories

The Cursed Word

In the heart of a vast lonely meadow, a tower struck by the spell has been living on this deserted land for centuries. Within it, a bell that formerly served villagers of an old-time. Only now, it is known for its unstoppable ringing, and never does it cease to cry. There has been no rest to her singing for whoever came across the old tower. About this eternal sound, a strange legend that crossed the ages lives through the mystified minds who passed by. [Read more]


Thinking with the hair

To cut the hair in four
And to peel each tongue one by one
As a banana that I unwrap
On my banana tree

My head, such as a fruit tree
Ramifies in a thousand supple extensions
Branches oversized, softened
Falling as hanging wires at the top of the trunk

It all appears like simple lines flowing down
Deeply fixed on the nil point of my pate

But, at the end of their axis
even more ramifications beyond the first ones

Thereby, at the end of my hair, are fruits
Well pumped that I linger to dismember
And I divide the well-spun lines
I defeat my thoughts
Until I break my hair


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About     Poetry     Short Stories     Journal     Symbols

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