In my diaries as always

Since Ana’s death

I’ll remember her on that

Day eleven in September

Twothousandandfour –

Tattooed into the face of

My heart and my soul.

On this year’s September

It’ll be




Her tear she shed for me

Flows within my own eyes

For her. Still.

Ana – how great a love?

How precious a friend?

Fellow writer and poet

Accepting me as a poet

Of love

In a sacred ceremony of

Our hearts close up

Vibes of love shaking our


At that important meeting

On January thirteenth

Twothousandandtwo –

Her spirit joined mine in

An embrace of poets

Artists –

The messengers of the

Gods –

In Mitrepoleos First Floor

Café des Arts.

I still feel Ana’s presence

When I write

When I dive into the

Great creative conscious

She partakes to shape












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