Even a star has no eternal life, I realized, when I saw one fall from unearthly high, graciously -star wise. We are all specks of dust, for whom death is a must.


The old wooden floors creak the way old floors tend to do, bringing back the sounds; soft rustling silk dresses, whispers and careless laughter, beneath candle lit chandeliers. Music whirling through halls, crackling flames in fireplaces, shadows on the wooden walls; till the last carriage has left and shutters dim the last light.

Ode to Edith Piaf

It's not solely the tragic life you faced, your voice or the words of your chansons, no, it's all of these so strongly combined, which overwhelms my soul; sadness spreads like rippling waves on a shore, and then my tears fall, so silently.


Etched in my memory that one day in May when my spoken words created your silence and from your face life slowly washed away with my flowing tears.


A pine-cone on the windowsill, its scent vanished with the years, gone, nevertheless it will remind me still, those days spent on a mountain side, and night's transition into dawn, when the world colours by morning light Wildflowers, rustling corn and creek and you, it is yourself you seek; until that last one day in …