Tuesday, November 1, 2016




The autumn's dream may keep its dying grace
With flecks of bleeding leaves, all dressed in yellow.
The cold wind's scorch may wither the green space,
When the sweet fruits a bit more need to mellow.

When autumn's tear on every leaf perceives
The cold wind, which scorches the green so cruelly
Till the shade of the bleeding yellow leaves
The whole, wet world to meet its ground so coolly.

The autumn's red may silence the bird's voice,
When the shivers of the tree the rain embrace.
Nature hides while having no other choice,
When the winter slowly comes to show her face.

The rainbow appears as a belt of weaves,
The rest of life begins to flow in the light.
The wind dances on the shivering leaves.
The lake's reflection steals the sun's delight.
Copyright © Marieta Maglas. All rights reserved.


In a juerga, there's nothing around
But voices, flamenco guitars,
Dancing bodies in moonlight,
Vibrant gypsy dresses,
Passion, obsessions,
Bullfighter's blades,
Silk shawls,
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Flamenco women to attract-
Barks of olive trees in the night.
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

Girls have boot heels and the roses,
Men clench their teeth, step opposes,
Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

Guitars are beaten at high speeds,
Castanets scratch the music's seeds,
Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

Hands becoming wings
In their shadows on the wall,
Red becoming black and
Black becoming white,
Motion vibrating the guitar's string,

Cubic movements of colors,
In their dance,
Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,
Flamenco woman arching her body,
Showing her passion…

From the soul to dissolve
The dancing sounds detach
From the soul to dissolve

When the movement they catch,
They may change all around,
The dancing sounds detach.

Drums and tambourines' sound,
Exotic wrists and swirls,
They may change all around.

The weightless grace makes girls
Steal treasures from the air,
Exotic wrists and swirls.

With beautiful black hair,
Rise like birds; fall like leaves.
Steal treasures from the air,

Having tricked up their sleeves,
From the soul to dissolve,
Rise like birds; fall like leaves
From the soul to dissolve.

Spicy slippery steps
Waiting for a clue,
Picking up portions of pink
Of hyper-femininity,
Overflowing screwy sounds
In heavy red chromesthesia,
Morphing themselves into glamorous,
Red feminine movements,
Men looking like marble statues being alive,
Seemingly cracking.
Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,
Steps cutting sweet sounds
To hear the horn of some lost happiness.
Copyright © Marieta Maglas


The sadness scattered
over the walls resonating
with what was
in the heart
of the mountain.
No sound could be heard.
A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas
were shrouded in mist.

A somewhat long-winded
like a speech
surrounded the sky.
Maybe it was an echo,
a sesquipedalian one.
It wasn't breathless at all.

Nothing could have saved
nature around.
Neither of the forests,
neither of the birds,
and neither of the bears
could survive.....
Nothing more
could have been done.

All the moving peaks became
small stones, as solitary
as the moon,
at the fugitive horizon.
The last cicada

Everything became motionless.
There were only the shadows
of the trees
to follow the sunbeams.
The nature game
turned detrimentally
into a disaster.

In an illuminated city,
the last man bought
a lovely bouquet of red roses
wanting to bestow
what it is considered to be
a symbol of romance.
This man needed
to express his love
and to let his woman know
how he feels about her.
This man disappeared.
Nothing could have saved him.
Nothing more
could have been done.
Copyright © Marieta Maglas


Eyes huddled in fear,

that paralyzing fear in front of

the bullets mercilessly sprayed,

deeply sprayed by some cruelty,

which is fed up

with a lot of victims,

those defenseless victims of hate,

a dreadful hate,

which is fed up with a little love

as well as

a little pleasure can be fed up

with a lot of pain,

that extreme pain,

which embellishes the madness,

one round and seemingly

nonexistent madness being like

a strange cold having

many moisturized rosy-red,

rosy-red ring-shaped patches

associated with a giant Quincke swelling

and with a boisterous cooling noisy breath,

that snorting breath like a groaning song,

a love song for a dance of death,

that painful death for all the hot puppets,

beautiful puppets becoming

cold wax mannequins,

those mannequins screaming in their red rain

of feelings,

those red feelings coloring a few sad moments,

cool moments of many winter fires

those burning fires in the lost caves of shadows.

Copyright ©

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