Where does love go when it is forgotten

fb3dQuotes23There is nothing left, a broken piece of shape and colour
the time took some time or several hours
in which I do not feel geographical inequality
eternally lost from pleasure and flutes fell

And now I’m a queen in my own lodge, listening to music myself
innocent and beautiful and framed as a god
breathing in the dream of life
which lasts only in music
melted by myth, but part of the myth
About the rebellious purity of one who wonders as he crawls
in front of the memory of stone dug in nettles
like a bald snail on the skin of a young leaf
like a kid on the doorstep of a dark room
Where does love go when it is forgotten
when mounds of ivory and cedar were forgotten with the crowd
our bodies are like flowers
our bodies are like knives
our eyes are from a man in love
who can redeem old pain
That man, that angel, that demon
and the eyes of him who watches them are blinding
as God’s forehead as he imagines the world
like a sea of blood and gold
like a thirsty sandy shore
It absorbed the legends of the people who flooded the ocean
across the sea, the whole world I used to decorate my gloomy royal hands

Get up, look, though you have no hope, dream of the dawn
dawn dawn


all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora

Poem for my 43rd birthday – Authors note: This means nothing

Everything, the October announcement,
a hand of god nebulae form three dirty yellow patches of fog,
and five days of compassion dipped in the pupil,
arose mododktil, rags…to see eternity, friability
opposites as growing cold rivers always appear
Heavenly heroes of soiled masks
they get in and out far from both of them celebrants
these two should be washed well under the delta
in dark sun, waltz between them.
“I’m toxic to rabbits” – “one”
“I burn deep credentials,”” two”
toxic to 43 minefields,
“both” in the home of deceased ornaments
“I celebrated it!”
In the harmonious belly of the Tiber
at the home of the late son’s brother’s son
(whispering, wryly amused):
He was a Spartacus but he did not have a house
he killed the Romans killed the Romans
in lapis lazuli Stygian river…
(demented innkeepers with hairy ties waiting tables)
My late geographical years – what did real biology give me,
but capsule in genetics, a blend of two good motives
with the drop of wars here and there,
playing the bulls that yield the mythical image of red light
under the blue bridge*
towering faces, held by Gordie’s knot,
cut by a stiffened Jon Snow sword,
a sense of scale.
For the character to be rounded—
how sick beasts bow before pigeons,
how they instead tread the shoes of the dead homeless,
bread crumb and the ice cube,
how they, in turn, leave the climax
how sick is that?
It dilutes the palate budding
with the sweetness of sweet howling,
when the poison slowly…
wrings out stone fruit prussic acid branches,
comfy being…being half-open mistletoe
in a bed of amaryllis’ healed, clouded mind;
a well runs and disappears when lifting the curtain
the bells will sound like…
The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora,
logical and – hardened berries,
celebration knows no celebration,
muddy half of the evening between the grey substances,
less and less becomes more,
time is oh, the power of secrecy barefoot gift,
a day feels like a night and morning reeks like noon.
October on the wall!
What is in the box? Sisyphus and with ribbons on!
*The Blue Bridge, place in Belgrade for prostitution (lowest prices) Part of Belgrade actually bears the name “Bridge of Whores”: Behind it lies the suffering of women under the Turks, a river of blood flowed towards the Danube

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie



I get scared to be

The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish

I will serve alone within myself even thought I am not my own

Before wounded knees everything opens

Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice

Wanton skulls and eras without rest


God will punish me I know

But in the cramp of passion

I will not be broken by those absent


We danced the whole day

The solitude anew embraced by valleys

Above the springhead

And sin to people


I get scared to be

The scream of the butterflies


This day undie now,
in the torrent fangtooth sun
it falls down.

After a decade of lying down,
my eyes opened
in my earth shaken house

that gets better.

I’m still alive and kicking.
Hurry up, I tell myself,
hurry to make it tonight, till the first crack of dawn.

My clouded brain is looking for the cause
even in my own guilt,
I bury myself deeper, don’t have someone else like Mengele to do it,

When in Singidunum I arrived searching for a foreign world,
I didn’t have in sight what was imagined,
but a fresh drop of blood down the leg
and an untrained word with no will be spoken.

They took everything from us
our square mandible,
our high brow,
our purple rainbows
our soon shaken houses.

Die die die die young
for the dragon poured water out of his mouth,
when the killers come to take you
when your word is blood and flame.

Are they coming yet to take me
rooted in the last morning of a bullet
the aim is to get me to the windowsill,
while sweat drips onto the dark maps
in my enraged skull and the ink spills.

Full of eyes both in front and in the back
through words and pictures
the tense mind opened,
through the heart, with the need to write
to cousins ​​of true love.

Out there, it’s a jelly-like day
(a glass-like eye)
out there, carrion crow, cavemen
in my sea shaken house
geese, stings and herons
into the night that has passed for days
at whatever speed
is crumbled God
at its peak.

Fears missed
as ours we voiced,
tears mist
has hours rejoiced.

Like peeling an apple and finding worms,
you cut a mouth into the apple,
you carve a grin a bit on the apple… like a toy,
only to have the perfect insect wiggle out.

Broken-winged horses they will fly and fall,
the hoof roars as the red rooster
blackened, sand stars
feverishly shaking looking around
through the magnifying glass,

of delusion in each intestine of imago’s body,
screaming on the inside
terror’s reign of the gut, nothing else,
as if sword-cut, the scream of the butterflies.

And yet another day’s rising sun
befalls my star’s rising light.

copyright by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie



Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier

Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier. The phrase “Not to speak ill of the dead” falls into the category of grievous hurt and thought defects, lies that are told as “good day” good evening “good night” how are you or… Today, it’s the hottest day of the summer, or… .”Not to speak ill of the dead ”- Just passing the time of day – So much for decorum.

A marsh makes Lamastu with Layla, in the night, Slanderers Part Two (Poem by Leila Samarrai to her slanderers)

Of Vicious Being Rabisu, and the Nightmare
Of doing what is bad to his neighbor.,
who put night time monsters in this 
Brought a voyeur  into Awakening
and all our wicked and lucid appetite for  useless life
With loss of  Sight, who here is an Earthling, a
and who an extraterrestrial
From hell, from heaven, hieromonk apostate
yester morn us,  And afterwards proclaims us blind
And when I jot them all down,
I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate
as if it were the fate of an avenger,
my head on a stump, the only given possibility.
A dissonant interval. Music banging in the dark.
A calm before the storm.
Then all of the scribblings, those in my treasure chest
as well as my head, will be swallowed by flames.
Then I shall sing from the ashes and embrace the walls
as I burn half-spoken
A vicious being, Rabisu*, takes all kinds of form,
he lasts to the bitter end,
to the dust, in a lifetime,
before waking up, only for some breed of men

Both the light and shadow,
both whirlpools and abysses
of the deeps, merge with vile contours of envy.
Fearless, doubtful shame wallow in dunghill
In the edge of the lost world,
none shall hear the truth, its monstrosity,
but also its shininess
Unto Innocence cry lies  the reverberation
by the slanderers burnt in
Through all our mazes of Ire and Fire,
An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy pointed at dire events
to  avengeance a discord of (thy) listed names.
The honourable citizenry slandered.
and the quill’s wounds scream
These eyes of mine get me to the windowsill,
while sweat drips onto the dark maps
in my enraged cranium and the ink spills.
For it is all written. Their claims.
In my sleep
Irritant, gluttonous tongue of the serpent
to craft a tangled state,  to down with this living man
through the scales of slander, and those letters…
oh, such letters!

For all, it had done and for all hast not done
That I did a mightier service to stumbling block and weep
of something magnified, nesting nowhere  in my spirit,
for it appeared in the clearest,
nigh-apathetic shape based on true love I once  felt

And in those letters I openly,
helplessly and naively checked all
…through words and pictures
opened the tense mind, through the heart, stabbed
As leans in crawling pincer

A beastly howl of the desperate,
undiminished, swim through the similes
But said Prowler of the Desert:
” Picture Cupid dipping arrowheads
in phenylethylamine. It is poison,
to undergo the mournful shades?
Why is thy sight pedestal on the top of earthly kingdoms,
a Carpenter – Shephard, crowned ruler of all artists,
The hell is this damn wooden bench!
Two massive bits glued together and a piece of plywood…
…plywood in the middle like a cork!”
Among the mournful, mutilated shades?

Anything but  lights, carpenter’s fashion as a guide,
Consider,  if to count Apostles be pipe players
did a ditty
for numerous books in a single passage,
a secret of that slanderer trash whispering
behind the scenes, with a filthy rag
and uttered verdict, razor-sharp.

Observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through applaud,
at times shrugs and as if shaking
of a stone, then like exhaling in pain,
The motion of slanderer.
The devil’s work

Lye thus unpitying kingdom crushed
offered up as a REPLACEMENT does,
Perun himself spoke to me,
or an Arab Djinn of sorts
I got the Serbian and Arabian war gods mixed up.
Seizing the first
Seizing the second, distorted drunks downing that final glass…
of poison.
– If only plastered cinnamon and rose perfume onto her moustache- it’s cold, even for the disconsolate when lifeless living
clenched a thiyab al-mounadamah…

or whatever robe of striking colours,
seized with its claws.
if robbed by a mysterious fever,
hardened backs bent, scared and careful
of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

as if those of drunks downing that final glass…
an option

And now the moon  errands in the doomy pit
Behold Dat and Dis, the wicked spirits
galloped back through time
moon teeth corrupt to their roots and bloody..
Too well I blind and rue the stare at me
with a flaming eye.
Aflame in anger.
The moon has nothing to do with it.


That with sad, enormous chunks of time
Has lost us blocking the thorough research of vile
By right of Irre, diabolical actions,
By right of Slime, rash must go  behind
By right of  War, taken out  insidiously
By right of a lipstick-wearing actor, taken out comically.
By right of treacheries, idiocies, taken out vigorously
 From fell to fell descended Iscariot’s slanders
to set asag – disease of the benign red shores.

Strongly to enumerate a hysterical wretches
in muck of mud and blood –
In horrible destruction only impurity essences
The hours of night taking away a restful pistol
my bullets are ready, my drawers are gone

Passing through door cracks to feed inhospitable winds of the steppe,  the Hetman still rides, knight.
A marsh makes Lamastu with Laylah, in the night
*Rabisu and Lamastu are nightmarish demons in ancient mythologies
*Laylah is Arabic name, means “Night”

The starving cans (Serbian included)

I stumbled over my colours

I cramped in myself

and they are always hidden from themselves

they are always stopped short

The perfect circle around the smell

A rat’s raised leg

shot up into the heights


I’ve collected everything: starving cans,

enemies who wanted to poison me

Stormy shadow, metaphors, precipice

I got angry with the bus cards


I’ll never be able to throw anything away.


I dumped waste at the dreary poetry cemetery

It is everywhere

My song.. .. it never was, inside her forgetfulness

And my story .. my story .. was my story


in no place, they don’t look

Once upon a time, there was meow and meow

you smell

still smells the same

I meow


They.. are dead .. and grown over swear  – words in the wind

appeared in this den

My house, my house, you took over my red home

Red times

No pain.

Maybe later.


I feel a recurrence of one’s presence

I feel that old

Inappropriate to stay here anymore

(Scream in the distance)


They never liked you

They never liked you

They never liked you

And you’re just pretending, too

The wind’s forgotten appeared


someone takes off your memory

be happy they forgot about you

you are finally free


Naletela sam na svoje boje

Slamala sam se u sebi

Uvek su skriveni od sebe oni..

uvek su zaustavljeni

savršen krug okolo mirisa

podignuta noga pacova

puca u visine


Sakupila sam sve: pregladnele limenke

neprijatelje koji su me hteli otrovati

olujne sene, metafore, provalije..

bila sam ljuta na autobuske karte


nikad neću moći ništa da bacim


Bacila sam otpad na grozno groblje turobne poezije

Ono je svuda

moja pesma… nikada nije bila moja pesma u njenoj


i moja priča.. moja priča.. bila je moja priča..


Ni na jedno mestu, ne gledaju.. jednom davno..

Jednom davno, bilo je – mjau i mjau


i dalje miriše isto

Ja – mjau

Oni su mrtvi

prerasli su psovke na vetru

pojavio se u ovoj jazbini


Moja kuća, moja kuća

preuzeli su moj crveni dom

crvena vremena

bez bola. možda kasnije..


Osećam ponavljanje prisutnosti

osećam se tako staro

neprikladno je da ostanem ovde.. više..


(vrisak u daljini)

Nikad te nisu voleli

Nikad te nisu voleli

Nikad te nisu voleli

I ti se samo pretvaraš

Pojavio se vetar…

neko ti skida pamćenje

budi srećna što su zaboravili na tebe

napokon si slobodna

The Ghostwriter. Cripple. Madwoman. Video version, poetry recital

It is a poem about passionately driven needs to share something as uniqueness itself. But a poet feels the lack of words to express it, to see all through unto another imminently adversity of poetically rhythmic challenge to pledge in well-written form. But, unfortunately, a poet must write in a language which is not his/her own.


The Ghostwriter. Cripple. Madwoman.

Why creator, why Serbian is my mother tongue
why did you make me crippled …;

My gentle voice was offered in kindness
alone is to lay the proper framework
well-placed suggestive supportive backings
by not chasing dreams ending
but rather cherishing its precious moments
along well-written lines of living it.

a hinted thought in my vocabulary
processing attempts as each memorizing
idealistic flash penetrates my mind
with this blinding reverberating echo

I needed an old friend from birth
as one throughout the day today
and then when the house was calling my opening of its door
welcomed me with overwhelming reports of

which music from the past I knew somehow guiding me
into today’s reminder
that I will be ok no matter what tomorrow brings.

I can finally close my eyes in being reassured nightmares
wait not for dawns whistling birds dreaming
in sync with a mine of better days break

for all of those to see us through to another
imminently adversity of poetically
a rhythmic challenge to pledge in well-written form.

in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.

This gift though will not fade
as those previously brought forth
throughout artistic history has proven.
It always starts with One leading by example.

My own path is not my own path
Be it a humanistic artist in a spirit form, or if medical assistance would reveal its wisdom’s
recognition when proudly sought after whenever its shelters
offered from overwhelming thoughts
let their presence be known.

Circumstances will always be differentiating
between origins of authenticity.
However, the origins of free will be authentically never different
in any circumstances brought between those trying to be heard.

A whisper triggers curiosity’s interest in turning
While a panicked scream can send people running in the opposite direction.

The most fared ally of oppression
loud voices is the ghostwriter.

My words of change will be heard by those meant
to join mine journeys of poetic justice.


Non Believer

My poem Non Believer has no independent identity. It is tied with myself based on my sinister intentions of composing that poem. i.e per the intentions behind writing it.
It meant to be tied with the audience too but due to the word-for-word translation ii e due to rendering of text from one language to another one word as Latin would have said: “verbum pro verbo”) with or without conveying the sense of the original whole, I cannot judge whether I was able to write exactly my indescribable painful experience. Sorry about it!

Who would want this
who wanted this?

If there’ s a God
who did this
if there’ s one
if there’ s one
if only you knew how much I hated you
You made out you’re merciful
But what about those like me
giving in to temptations
totally outclassed us in the first half
The ducklings
she wanted to be free

You don’t think I’d ignore the whole thing
You think I’d make a fool of myself like you?
Don’t you think I know who you are?
Didn’t you think I forgot about you?
Don’ t you think that I know that?
you think this lousy toilette chain is gonna keep me out?
do you think I wanted THIS?
somebody wanted to make sure
you didn’t get it
Who would want to…
if there’s momentum
if there’s…

At this hour
to live that horror again
always afraidit’ s for the first time
during this month decades of incarceration…
And bars on the windows.
driven through my heart
Bedridden, I know how to pray
I will honour the words but
I was never a believer
I don’ t…I don’ t… I don’ t
do you?


Recasting happens all the time on soaps.
It’s way past bedtime, a lifetime ago
I summon thee, songbirds, humans
and some nonhuman primates
Me, I call it looking for friendly foes.
Me, I carried them in a dead child body.
another sin
another immaculate conception
between the pillars of Babilon
I go off about
pygmy marmoset babbling language
I am PhD in even more than one million
I speak in rhythmic patterns just as hearing infants do
mumble, grumble
nag nag nag
Unlike me,
The bloody heathens
The wicked
are unable to phonate

Now turn around a little, round and round
get on the ground
pick a grass, stones, lichen
There are crops to harvest
Pour it into their green wings
make fun of some poor bastard

If you’ re there
But if you’ re there
No, no, don’ t worry, don’ t worry
I’ll be here.
I’ll be right there
I understand that I understand that.
all these things were said

if you do exist
keep in mind to give me hope
a torture by hope
as if there’ s something or someone
waiting for me
a comfortable life, the sound of a faraway star
gig’s on pastoral Saturdays
playing the guqin lute
such beautiful music
Nice inscription on my footsteps chain
once plentiful, was once, a long time ago

when there were no other worries
I know I want to believe that
I will walk along free,
even with a good deal of leisure,
rather than between grey, tired bars
under arrest, in cuffs, doing time, for a long time

Now, give me a kiss on my imprint
even though it had been raised
by contusions and shrapnel
a belt, a child has been jailed and flogged
was once, I was eight
and now…
The cage must be tired I am
The Colour Sick Pearl
do it
before I fall asleep into a soporific roar of the waves

They’ll be right in
above my head
They, the very same.
to take me away

Rooted in the last morning of a bullet

Leila Samarrai