Follow your heart

THE MIRRORED WORLD

“In the mirror, I saw not just a reflection, but an infinite landscape – both beautiful and cruel. A world too vast to escape, yet too fragile to embrace.”

A mirrored world – boundless, deceptive,

We live within its depths, reflective.

And yet, a fleeting truth appears,

When joy’s rare smile dissolves our fears.

Destiny grants us dreams to claim,

Yet dreams are shadows—lost in flame.

They come, they go, like restless tides,

And in their wake, our soul abides.

Life is brief, or so it seems,

Yet endless when it cradles dreams.

Each fleeting year, a tender page,

Where youth and wonder meet with age.

Ships roar against the harbour walls,

Lions bow where twilight calls.

Beneath forgotten wealth decays,

Yet beauty lingers in its haze.

A youthful heart grows old, resigned,

The eyes grow dim, the soul confined.

Yet still, we find the strength to rise,

And greet the garden, clear of lies.

YOUR ERROR SCARRED THE SOUL

“Today, I sat on the sand, the ocean stretching infinitely before me. The waves spoke a language I longed to understand. I dipped my pen into their rhythm and wrote about diplomacy—how it mirrors the tides. It is both gentle and forceful, patient yet unyielding. A seagull hovered nearby, a silent witness to my thoughts. “The world,” I wrote, “is as fragile as this shoreline, shifting with every wave, yet enduring through centuries.””

Your error scarred the soul, you see,

And cast it adrift in a storm-torn sea.

Unready was I for the world’s vile play,

Unready to face love’s bitter fray.

The moon blurred dreams with its spectral glow,

Binding my feet where shadows grow.

You let your life drift with the breaking dawn,

And gained love’s kiss, but dreams were gone.

You knew the winds – unstable, wild,

Feared each pause like a restless child.

You ran, you fled, you let it fade,

The trust you once so lightly laid.

Desire led you, open and bare,

Yet you drowned in its embrace, unaware.

Forgotten truths in tears dissolved,

Loneliness stood where hope resolved.

A meagre world of fleeting might—

Among sharks, serpents, and piranhas’ bite.

You lost your path, consumed by vice,

Yet in your will, life still survives.

WHAT IS FREEDOM IN DARKNESS?

“The library is my refuge. Rows upon rows of books, each holding a piece of someone’s mind, someone’s struggle. I’ve been spending hours here, lost in legal texts and the occasional novel. Balance is everything. To be free is not to escape the shadows, but to walk through them unbroken. Freedom is the light we find within.”

What is freedom in darkness dire?

Perhaps a steadfast step through mire.

Perhaps the keenest eye that sees,

The beauty born of whispered pleas.

Freedom is to hold each heart,

And in return, your love impart.

To value all who dare to give,

To see the truth, to truly live.

Freedom is the distant star,

That guides the ship when storms are far.

To stand respected, firm and free,

And know that life still beats in thee.

TO FOLLOW THE HEART

“The library welcomed me like an old friend. The scent of aged books was intoxicating, and the silence was profound. I found a corner by the window, where the light filtered through ancient glass panes. My thoughts turned to… There is a quiet rebellion in following one’s heart – a defiance that reshapes the world. To listen, to feel, to leap without fear.”

To follow the heart, to pause, to hear,

Its cries of joy, its echoing fear.

To cast off chains of thought’s cruel lies,

And see the world through unveiled eyes.

The echoes fade, the light grows dim,

Yet still the heart beats firm within.

It seeks the paths that reason bars,

And dreams of dancing beneath the stars.

How frightening life’s silent scream,

To wake and find the world a dream.

Yet courage blooms when truth takes hold,

A love, unbroken, pure and bold.

THE WHISPERING GARDEN

“Sometimes I crave the scent of flowers and leaves, as if the world could never offer enough. I close my eyes and find myself in the most beautiful and peaceful garden imaginable – a mysterious haven nestled within my heart. In this garden, I discover not only blossoms but fragments of eternity, a timeless promise whispered by the earth itself.”

Oh, wondrous garden! Your whispers plead,

As sunlight strains to sow its seed.

Entwined in leaves, a tender breath,

Where life defies the grasp of death.

Oh, gentle garden! Your roots run deep,

Through hopes we dared to sow in sleep.

Your blossoms reach, yet yearn to flee,

Bound in the veil of eternity.

The skies erupt with radiant flame,

But you, my garden, remain the same.

What joy, what grief, your soil has bled,

Yet still, you bloom where angels tread.

My sweet, I’ll weave my dreams for you,

A cloth of whispers, soft and true.

For even at the edge of strife,

You hold my heart—you are my life.

ENVY, FEAR, FRAILTY, PAIN

“There are poisons that seep through the soul, silent yet all-consuming. They speak in whispers, but their echoes are deafening.”

Envy, fear, frailty, pain —

The heart beats beneath this shadowed strain.

Venomous words spill ash and fire,

The tongue, a blade, reveals its ire.

Pain tears apart the soul inside,

Subduing the living with each tide.

A single glance of jealous spite,

And the spirit falls to endless night.

A darkened cell enshrouds the brow,

Eclipsing all with solemn vow.

The sunbeam falters, lost, denied,

Where once the pathways opened wide.

Compassion stirs for hearts that bleed,

For souls ensnared by hollow greed.

Through circles they wander, bound and blind,

By burdens of their own design.

LET THEM WEEP WHO SPURNED OUR LOVE

“Let the heavens judge, for justice finds its way through storms and tears alike.”

Let them weep who spurned our love,

Let the heavens rage, the storms above.

Let lightning carve their fleeting lies,

While justice howls through endless skies.

I ride the steed of broken dreams,

Through shadowed plains and moonlit streams.

No chains can bind this heart’s decree,

For pain shall yield to destiny.

You turned and said, “I shall not stay.”

Yet now your tears betray the day.

Why linger in the halls of strife,

And haunt the echoes of my life?

Ashes of hope, embers of disdain,

You scorned my soul, but not in vain.

For from the shards, I rise anew,

Beyond the reach of what I knew.

The winds I loosed now hunt you down,

Their whispers echo, fierce and profound.

Run swift, yet know my heart is whole,

Untamed, unbroken—an eternal soul.

WHAT IS LIFE WITHOUT HONOUR OR FAILINGS?

“I have lost people I loved with all my heart—my mother, my father, my fiancé, and a few close friends. A time of mist and shadows, where loss, love, and the quiet force of endurance shaped me. Strength grows, not in ease, but in the crucible of pain, when the mind and heart ache beyond words. «Так закалялась сталь»—this is what they say about me. For to live without trial is to drift through an endless void; a hollow existence untouched by fire.”

What is life without honour or failings?

A hollow march through fleeting unveilings.

What is honour bereft of strife?

A fragile veil, untouched by life.

No steel is forged in gentle streams,

No soul awakens from shallow dreams.

It takes the storm, the blinding rain,

To carve the heart from grief and pain.

Each loss a weight, a silent stone,

Each love a light, though dimly shown.

Yet through the darkness, strength is born,

A soul remade, though bruised and torn.

What is the path without its thorns?

A barren field where nothing mourns.

What is the heart that knows no ache?

A fragile shell that dares not break.

The cliffs may call, the seas may rise,

The stars may dim in shadowed skies.

Yet still we stand, though bent and scarred,

For life’s true gift is won through hard.

I lost my loves, I lost my ground,

Yet found myself where loss abounds.

For honour blooms from what we bear,

And failing teaches how to care.

To fall is human, yet to rise—

That is where all true glory lies.

For what is life without the fight,

Without the darkness to birth the light?

The journey bends, the edges fray,

But courage leads the heart away—

Away from void, from hollow strife,

To face the fire, and call it life.

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS

“Dear Diary,

Hundreds of pages by classical writers—Turgenev, Zola, Dumas, Tolstoy, Bradbury, and countless others—have offered me wisdom, yet no clear decisions. Thousands of experiences weigh on me, yet the answers remain veiled. I need to meditate, to let my mind find its quiet. For in the stillness, the mind whispers its loudest truths. Sometimes, silence is the only answer.”

Thoughts creaked beneath the shadowed glow,

A frozen tear began to flow.

The cricket’s tune, both sharp and frail,

Wove threads of sorrow through the veil.

The weary sky, a solemn shroud,

Held secrets whispered soft, yet loud.

Destiny lingered in quiet guise,

In midnight’s hush, where silence lies.

A tempest churned within the soul,

Its surging tide beyond control.

It swept through memories, love, and pain,

And left behind its quiet stain.

The moon, a sentinel of dreams,

Hung low to catch the heart’s extremes.

Its light, though faint, revealed the way,

Through tangled thoughts and fleeting day.

For in the night, when all seems still,

The mind resounds, its voice will fill

The empty spaces we once fled,

And truths arise where silence led.

BY THE SHORE

“You are different, as I am—blue, green, deep, light, shining, strong… but never wrong, ocean. My soul is the ocean. And only with you, with your fierce winds and boundless power, do I feel calm. The sea holds confessions no land can bear. It whispers truths, carries burdens, and drowns regrets.”

By the shore, beneath the moon’s embrace,

A bottle drifted—a timeless trace.

The waves, relentless, sang their song,

Of broken paths and where I belong.

Perhaps the hour has now begun,

To bare my truth beneath the sun.

A letter scrawled with trembling hand,

To plead, to mourn, to understand.

“Forgive me,” I wrote, “my final plea,

For sins unspoken, lost at sea.

For tarnished love, once pure and bright,

Now swallowed whole by endless night.

Forgive my restless, reckless ways,

The wounds I left, the debt that stays.

Forgive the words, sharp as the tide,

Born of despair I could not hide.

Forgive my doubt, my fleeting trust,

The dreams reduced to windswept dust.

Forgive the paths I walked in gloom,

The bridges burned, the seeds of doom.

Forgive the years that passed in haze,

The shadowed nights, the empty days.

And yet, forgive me not, if you cannot,

For I am lost—a soul forgot.”

I sealed the note with trembling breath,

And cast it to the waves of death.

The ocean claimed it, pulled it deep,

To cradle truths I could not keep.

Yet in the stillness, hope remained,

A fragile thread, though faint, sustained.

That somewhere, far beyond this shore,

Life waits, renewed, forevermore.

THE BULLET FLEW TWICE OVER

“I love reading the news, but it must be true—something rare in a world where truth is elusive. What does truth mean? Does it have boundaries? Can it exist always, yet shift in different realities? For lawyers, truth is a weapon and a shield, wielded in the arena of reason and evidence. But truth, in its rawest form, is neither kind nor forgiving. The weight of violence lingers long after the shot is fired, staining the soul with echoes of what cannot be undone.”

The bullet flew twice, breaking the skies,

Its path unseen by blinded eyes.

A rival fell where silence reigned,

While shadows deepened, truth remained.

“You sought the stars, the fated lore,

Yet darkness claimed you evermore.

Through fields of rage, through endless pain,

You chased the heavens but found disdain.”

The bullet’s song, a mournful sound,

Its echoes haunt the hollowed ground.

A whisper crawls through bloodied air,

Who bears the blame? Who dares declare?

A single voice, a trembling cry,

“Yes, I – yes, I, and none but I.”

The bridges burn, the rivers dry,

Yet no redemption meets the eye.

What is the cost of justice’ name?

A fleeting truth, a lasting shame.

The Pegasus rides through storms of wrath,

But leaves no light along its path.

The bullet flew twice, and still it flies,

Through fractured hearts, through silent skies.

For truth may burn, or truth may heal,

Yet its wounds remain, forever real.

SHE SAT BY THE WINDOW

“Diary, … Grief has a voice that no one hears, yet its whispers linger in the depths of our eyes.”

She sat by the window, serene yet pained,

Her silken gown with moonlight stained.

A thread unraveled, caught mid-air,

As shadows wove through her auburn hair.

Her sapphire gaze, deep and wide,

Held secrets only stars confide.

A single tear refused to fall,

A silent sentinel through it all.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, soft and clear,

“To the winds that carry my lingering fear.

Forgive the sorrow I did not choose,

Forgive the hope I dared to lose.

For in the depths of night, I grieve,

A thousand truths I cannot weave.

I mourn not him, but dreams betrayed,

A fragile life that could not stay.

I sought his voice, his steady hand,

But he walks now in another land.

Was it my heart, too proud, too still,

That let the echoes break my will?

Oh heavens, vast, unyielding, cold,

Do you mock my tears with tales untold?

Do you scatter dreams like brittle glass,

Leaving splinters where love might pass?

I wear no shame, though grief is mine,

It shapes my soul, its aching shrine.

I do not weep for what is gone,

But for the silence, now withdrawn.

For his absence carves a sacred space,

A quiet, hallowed, timeless grace.

No blame, no anger, no regret,

But a love unspoken, quietly met.”

The dawn crept in with gentle light,

Its golden hues dispelling night.

And though her sorrow did not fade,

Her spirit stood, unbent, unfrayed.

For honour lies in bearing pain,

With dignity that does not wane.

And through her tears, the world could see,

The strength of her eternity.

YOU CAME TO ME IN THE DAWN

“Dreams speak the language of the soul, and sometimes, their voices call us to truths we dare not face…”

You came to me in the dawn of light,

A phantom, weaving through the night.

A tender fire, a fleeting flame,

I wished to hold you, call your name.

Yet you, an ember, distant, dim,

Slipped through the folds of my fragile whim.

In the haze of sleep, your visage stayed,

A bittersweet ghost, a love betrayed.

If only, I thought, your heart were real,

If only you knew the depth I feel.

Yet dreams, deceitful, weave their guise,

And I awake to an empty sky.

Find me not in fleeting thought,

But in the truths your heart has sought.

Find me where the light does break,

Where sorrow bends but does not quake.

Find me, though shadows cloud the way,

And cradle me through night to day.

Find me, and I shall find you too,

Forever bound, our love renewed.

WHAT IS FREEDOM?

“Freedom is not a gift bestowed by the world; it is the courage to seek truth when all else is veiled.”

What is freedom in eternal night?

A steady step amidst the blight.

A steadfast heart that dares to see,

The vast expanse of destiny.

To hold the love of those who care,

And, in return, to bravely share.

To cherish self, to stand alone,

To weave your dreams into the known.

Freedom breathes where truth is found,

Amidst the silence, its call resounds.

It lives within, a guiding flame,

A beacon, fierce, that none can tame.

Through days of darkness, cold and drear,

Freedom whispers, steady, clear:

“Rise, for you are more than these—

The storms, the tides, the bending seas.”

FOLLOW YOUR HEART

“The heart knows the roads the mind cannot traverse. To follow it is to walk with faith through the shadows.”

Follow your heart; let it softly sing,

Through joy’s ascent and sorrow’s sting.

It whispers truths no mind can see,

A melody of what shall be.

Through silent halls where shadows fall,

It leads, unyielding, past the wall.

Though reason balks, though fear may bind,

The heart persists, steadfast, aligned.

It falters not through doubt’s parade,

Nor wearies of the trials laid.

It weaves its course through darkest woe,

And in its faith, new gardens grow.

Follow your heart; it is your star,

A guiding light, both near and far.

It carries you through boundless strife,

The compass of your fleeting life.

HE FOUND HIS DULCINEA

“He saw her not as she was, but as his heart willed her to be—a vision of all he cherished and all he dreamed.”

He found his Dulcinea fair,

Her gentle grace beyond compare.

In her, he saw a world divine,

A truth that mirrored his own design.

But I have yet to find your gaze,

To walk with you through twilight’s haze.

He claimed his muse with heart alight,

Yet I am adrift in endless night.

Oh, may my smile one day reveal,

A love as pure, a dream as real.

May I, too, find a heart so true,

To weave my days in gold and blue.

CAUGHT BETWEEN WALLS

“Where am I? Should I even write in your pages, my diary? I need to be honest with someone, but perhaps only with myself. I am caught between walls—it’s chess, where I am the prisoner of inquisitors. Yet, in the end, it is all in my mind. Kasparov defeated the computer, Zeland found the reality of Transurfing, Napoleon believed in his vision. Who am I, and where should I go? Are there no doors, or are these just doors I no longer need? What stops me from breaking this reality and building my own? I have that strength—I do not need the confines of others’ rules. But do you?”

Between shadows and corridors, the past whispers its riddles.

How much capricious folly hides in love, unseen?

Caught between these walls, where time turns back its lean.

Once again, I feel the ache, though not for you—

No, not for you—but for the gaze that pierces through.

My heart, oh, why must it tread the scaffold so vain?

Why cast the hours away, unwisely spent, in pain?

I recall the fissures of parting’s cruel embrace,

A bitter arrow through memory’s fragile trace.

Oppressive halls, where echoes wail and weep,

Cold flickers of candlelight my solace keep.

Through boughs of hollow souls, a shadow’s brand,

The wound of madness carves the mind’s command.

I walk these walls, a prisoner to thought,

A captive of battles that freedom forgot.

Yet still, in the silence, a spark does remain,

A vision of worlds unbound by chains.

You linger with me in the midnight’s depth,

You hold me fast from sorrow’s fatal step.

And though the lies and dreams decay to dust,

To you, my door stays open, as it must.

For beyond these walls, a world may thrive,

Where dreams unfettered take to the skies.

I am not bound by what others decree;

These walls are my making, and I hold the key.

ODE TO PETERSBURG

“Nothing compares to you. There is no other city like you, Petersburg. Peter the Great built you in 1703, but before that, you were already a place of great memory and history. You are far older than your stone façades suggest. My mother adored books about the construction of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. She was a wise and well-read woman, and she often spoke of Montferrand’s genius. Every building in Petersburg speaks—what do you hear?”