Barghest of the Moor

the dog silhouette

surrounded by the green light

after you, he walks

chosen prey of the hunter

among the moors

through the music of the sorrowful symphony

his howl moans your name

the ghastly sound of the undoing

the barghest

bound to you, pain-filled inamorata

the air thick with pain

the fog choking your throat

the hound

his gleam like hellbound light

in the past, hidden secrets

the ancestors’ redemption

through your sacrifice

through your blood


morn faded in the mists of the fog

joyful silhouettes spin in the dim light

mockery on their lips, wilderness in their hearts…

… as the fairies circle around the old willow

radiant, luminous

spear of brilliance, fireflies of the olden days

magic, spells, and freedom

the gleam in the mirror of the past

an solas timpeall na gcrann

Doors Shut

We all deal with our demons in the closets, but they can’t leave them, if we close the door.

Witch Light

Chased by the inquisition, hounded by people from the town, accused of witchcraft. Flipped books on black magic, items that indicate that I could dance with the devil himself. The pieces of evidence were undeniable, the only thing wrong with them was that they were untrue.

A lonely woman with a glow in the hair and the stars in her eyes, was the perfect victim when people began accusing the bolder townswomen of witchcraft.

It’s been four years since I was marked with the witch’s mark. But here, in the farthest corner of the mountains, no one was looking for me, no one was bothered by me anymore. I became nobody, I became a shadow and a ghost. Living in the middle of the forest, not standing out, now with a ranger husband, with a daughter who always runs away somewhere, deep into the woods.

And she always comes back with an inspired expression on her face and a strange glow in her hair.

Now, looking at the setting sun from behind the branches of the trees, I sigh, sucking in the smell of pines. I feel safe here. I feel that I am bound to be a forest apparition. They call it a witch. I call it freedom.

The glow in my hair gleams slowly, singing a silent light song, as I look into the soothing dusk.

Hell Above, Heaven Absent

The fire descending from the sky, the scorched mind, begging for the ethereal water. All thoughts closed in a small burning casket, where no air seems to be allowed. The deserted brain yells for relief, the body shivers under gusts of heat.

I loathe hot weather. Give me a cold beer, please. Otherwise, I will change into a dry scarecrow. I miss the winter, the beautiful snowy landscape of forest behind my window. Now even trees beg for a solace.

How many months? Only a few. I count the days until the first frozen pattern painted by frost on my pane…

Buttons and Cotton

the falling walls hide my heart
deep in the ground, under bed of thorned flowers
finding it equals death
as the poison injects into your veins

the walls fell
and buried my body underneath
the lonely bird sings over the brick grave
his button cotton eyes lurk beneath

buttons and cotton
the bird is made of, he
guards my tombstone made of walls

Forest, leaves and pucks

I wanna dive in the forest like in the water, falling into the leaves and bath in them like a crazy puck.


We all have our own balrogs to slay, to emerge stronger than before.

The heavy silence enveloping the air
like thick cocoon shutting my all senses
incrusting itself into my flesh
drinking my blood like an upir

song engraved in my soul
yet unable to be sung
I am silent
like an old snow-covered mountain
at the line where the world ends

Caradhras grew in me
unable to pass-through


The demon sleeps in me, it has the shape of my fear.

It burns with crimson inferno, burns and calls, tries, and tries, whispers – leap into me, swim in me, immerse in the depths of me, become me. Fire will clean you – of everything, of your body and thoughts, of your pain and suffering.

It will leave the burning witch, calling on the gods who are also burning, blazing with even higher flame. Chronos laughs and ashes the field that I irrigated all spring.

12 hours

When one has too much time and butchers the problems in one’s head, they seem so eternal.

Sometimes, I wish a day had 50 hours. Sometimes – just 1.