“The sun rose quietly, painting the horizon with strokes of gold and lavender. I woke at 5 am, my heart eager to meet the day. The rain had left its mark on the earth, and the air was fresh with the scent of renewal. I pulled on my boots and walked under the soft drizzle, my diary tucked close to my chest. The world was silent, save for the gentle rhythm of my breath and the occasional rustle of leaves. Today, I will write about the connection between law and poetry – both seeking truth, both navigating the intricate maze of human emotion… And suddenly I thought… The trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.”

A DIARY… Within it dwells a thousand desires,

Love, separation, and sorrow entire.

Within it lie barriers and fervent pleas,

Strength and a prayer carried on the breeze.

I sought no madness, no trespass of the soul,

Only fragments of truth that make me whole.

Time slips away, its seconds obscure,

Masking joy and pain that endure.

Is poetry a herald or an end?

An empty vessel, or a truth to transcend?

Judge not life with a hardened gaze,

I sought to remind you of fleeting days.

Hear not the word alone, but the hidden key,

For beyond these lines lies you and me.

I love life—wildly, recklessly, and true!

Understand this: destiny waits for you.

Happiness is readiness, a path aligned,

For those who seek, and those who find.

“Morning broke gently, as if painted by a delicate hand. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the stillness, weaving a quiet intimacy that only dawn could bring. The pages of a well-loved book lay open before me, words whispering secrets of times long past. My pen hovered over the diary, caught between the present and the weight of emotions longing to be expressed”.

Thus, it must be love—a tender, fleeting flame,

A melody spun from the fabric of dreams.

Restless yet gentle, it lingers on the edge of thought,

Whispering truths where silence once held sway.

Like sunlight tracing shadows on a waking wall,

It is both fragile and eternal,

A promise unspoken, yet deeply known.

Feelings once forged in stone now yield to time’s caress,

And scattered leaves murmur stories long forgotten.

I, unaware of love’s deft hand,

Awoke to its rhythm in the quiet warmth of a morning cup—

An ache, a joy, a binding thread.

Let us inscribe it, I whispered to the dawn,

For love, like the first breath of day,

Must never fade from memory.

"Each poem I write is a thread in the tapestry of my soul. These verses are not merely words; they are fragments of silence given form. I call my collection The Tear of Silence, for it is born from the quiet places within me – the moments between breath, the spaces between words. Let these pages speak where my voice cannot."

Oh, silent river, where do you flow?

Through valleys of light, through shadows below?

Do you carry the dreams of those who sleep,

Or secrets of hearts that ache and weep?

Your current winds through the forest deep,

Whispering truths I long to keep.

Oh, river of silence, take me too,

To lands unseen, where the heart is true.

“This morning, I wandered through the halls of the Hermitage. The paintings and sculptures seemed alive, whispering truths I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear. A thought clung to me: is intuition a blessing, or does it deceive us? I couldn’t let it rest…”

Is intuition a prophecy or a power,

That reason cloaks in the shadow of fear by night?

A sculptor, loud and angry,

Or a mocking, devilish, cunning spirit?

Perhaps the vision of distant horizons

Shields us from the pettiness of care?

This highest force of nature—

A coin with the double-headed eagle.

Boundless, with sorrows diminished,

To plunge through the depths and soar

Above the shooting stars that carry afar,

Mingling reason with feeling into one braid.

The kingdom of shadows bows its knees.

Veiled by fire, a mournful whistle,

Or the murmur of indecent persecution,

Or the creak of unsealed chains.

The power of intuition is corrupting,

Trying to justify doubt,

And in the whirl of lies, pleading and tearfully

Weaving balm for the soul.

Premonition, at times, lies buried

In the immeasurable riches of rumour,

Bloated, alluring with unease,

Iron shackles on the dreams.

Under the onslaught of heavy artillery,

The blind guard the blind with care.

Muted, shameful, and pitiful,

Day by day, we lose each moment.

Oh, if only that spark of revelation

Could join with calculated reason,

Flooding persecutions with calm wisdom

And transforming them into a crown of triumph!

To taste the game without praising the sinner,

To acknowledge the struggle without succumbing to it,

To know oneself and set a goal,

To believe in it wholly, without guile.

«The stars were my companions tonight. I sat by the window, candlelight flickering beside me, and wrote about love. “True love,” I mused, “is like the stars – constant, guiding, yet untouchable. It lights our way, even in the darkest moments.”

I love you… yet no words on earth suffice,

To cage the boundless, to embody skies.