The Scent of a Parched Shadow of Perfect Skin

I.

There are women
who march with iron in their heels —
you cannot write in the noise they summon.
They summon ghosts,
they dance with the devil, with the demon:
History choking the unborn,
turning futures into data
with official stamps.

We scroll through archives,
pretending to find
a noble reason for our scars.

There are women — icy stars —
their delicacy cuts inspiration thin,
wrapping desire in fine-printed dreams,
leaving nothing but the scent
of a parched shadow of perfect skin
to sell those pieces
to anyone hungry enough.

Are you hungry?
Are you handcuffed? Are you still in love?
Pieces of my body… still not enough?
Are you calling this love?
Cheated? Deceived?
Only bluffed?

Oh — they learned that trick
from scalpels redrawing the living:
betrayal taught them commerce,
nightmaresgiving,
crowds paid the price
in shame and downfall.
They played the game of truth,
their cruel freezing law.

I saw it — I saw.
You did it — you did.
Feelings not included.

I balance the ledger:
owed = paid
Feelings not displayed.

II.

There are women built of buried strangers —
faces stitched into mannequins of hope.
Make-up hides the hatred in seams,
cameras bless the big-dream trope,
and heroes were invented to die.
But — why?

Femme fatale —
or just fatalist meme?

A big dream...

Heroes were invented
to die for them —
so they'd feel alive for a moment.

Heroes are mortal.
So values can resurrect —
so they could feel alive
for a moment.
Who is reborn to life?
Their rival and opponent.

III.

There are women
with Mona Lisa’s smirk tattooed on:
not a secret — a prison mask —
born of nights of fear,
a ticket in hand — the cheapest
future near.

They belong to a gallery past,
still punching its chest
with slogans made of paper —
hoping the wind
might carry them back
to life
like a sailboat
not later.

Oh, to live and lie...

But — why?

a zigzag
between illusion and lie,
so soft
so deft —
these women —
future’s forgotten graves
with no flowers left.

A king may rule anything —
a crown chooses its own heirs —
the scepter: head or neck.

We cut from our real body
what is rotten —
while the breath fights
to be back.

IV.

Life wins
when icons lose believers
and human arms — men’s arms — remain,
brave enough to hold
the living.

I build a world
where past bows to future
instead of
clashing again.

Hey — Woman!
You who store memory:
remember.

Hey — Woman!
You who sculpt tomorrows:
believe.

Women who bridge time —
see.
Women who fathom pain —
forgive them. And be.

And go.

Go soft,
very softly and very deft —
the last one left.

V.

We give birth together:
crossing all timelines,
clear-minded,
tradition intact.

Lie or truth —
just truth, in fact.

We are not looking
to abort universes
that chose other homes.

We make beginnings
for futures continuing us:

immortal
tender
real.

I create
new paths over the abyss —
I tie ropes.

I create
a new home for me,
my universe,
my home of hopes.



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