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Art: Piotr Lichwierowicz




in the darkness it shone

white and ghostly

swaying as if suspended on a stalk

its roots deep in the nebula

invisible moorings

sapping light


Art: Odilon Redon, Strange Flower (Little Sister of the Poor), 1880


the sound



continuous grating

against something

soft and pliable

like skin

air stands still

then moves in waves

shadows whisper

and growl

it’s night


the moon




I heard a woman crying in the middle of the night. Her rhythmic sobs broke the silence, undulating like waves of time… I stopped breathing and listened. She kept on crying, softly, steadily, endlessly… her pain like a shadow on my soul. Like a reply. Like an echo. I lay in my bed and listened as she cried somewhere in the darkness, beyond my sight and touch. Close by, close enough to feel, her tears cascading from my ceiling. Minutes ticked by, the night breathed in and out, and I still heard her cry. On and on, as the night slipped away and the morn hovered behind my eyelids. And then the darkness ebbed, dissipated, and I opened my eyes to a murky light of dawn, lifting my head from a pillow saturated with tears…




At the edge of night, a giant clap of thunder tore through the silence, its deep reverberating rumble like a dark omen. The rain came down heavy and dense, battling and winning against the howling wind. It encased the house in watery bars, and she curled up in bed, small and helpless in the face of this sudden onslaught. In the relentless darkness she sensed a presence, shadowy silhouettes slowly taking familiar shape, long unseen. She held her breath as they circled around, her heart enormous and heavy, beating painfully against the ribcage. A stifling curtain descended upon her, large heaving bodies close by, sucking the air from the room, from hope, that disappeared in inconsolable defeat. She lay without moving, as they growled and snorted, nuzzling her in their morbid, insistent affection. There was no point in struggling. There was no point at all, as dark thoughts picked up their danse macabre, churning and churning, boring deeper all the time, down to the very pit of her being. She lay like this for an eternity, she may as well have been dead. Dawn rose slowly somewhere outside the window, somewhere beyond the insistent sorrow that now held her captive, its embrace like a tender vise…





Night encroaches

Dreamless state of terror

Voided sleep

Black on black

Fear appearing in the dark

Night encroaches

Soul departs

What remains

Has no right

To be



Art: Odilon Redon