Confession

Mio Padre,

I am a sinner. This confession is my only vow,
leaning in the half-light’s glow,
I knelt beside a flowing stream
and whispered, as if in secret blame,
touching the face of the being itself…

I scattered sparks of shame,
of longing and of grace…
I ruled, yet every word was mute.
I was a beast, a silent truth,
she, as if like flint and fire, dark magic born of night.

She slid into my arms and led the way…
between us burned a fervent love,
and she became my muse of breath and flame,
illumining the heart with ache and wonder.
Softly, enchantingly, she called to me,
resonant and skilled, like a living string,
sweet with an irresistible pull,
the neck of passion curved beneath her song.

A waltz of shadows, and the sense of fate,
my soul forgotten in delicious sin;
my heart obeyed that blessed harmony,
submissive to her languid gaze,
and golden hair fell on her shoulders like a sign.



“Confession
is an act of honesty and courage—
an act of trust in oneself and in God,
who forgives us.”

— Pope John Paul II, 1987

The heavenly guest

A heavenly guest, in the valley’s gloom,
who lost the light and learned of spite,
longed to ascend the open plain
to seek once more the tidings bright.

And with him came his sister - peace,
who stood like watchful sentinel,
upon the moon of numbered code,
on memory’s immortal spell.
At every heart she keeps her post,
the grief of three millennia,
unchanged, unmoved, a constant host
of sorrow born of vanished spheres.

No tempting day shall cast away
the shadow of that mortal shell,
nor wrinkle with a playful smile
the face where laws of silence dwell.

Your dreams shall turn to waking sight,
and heaven breed the spring anew;
before and after, hope itself
shall fade like minds that never knew.
The violins’ lament will burst,
their cry dissolve in peptide streams,
and music’s ache will flow as hormone
through the circuits of our dreams.

No longer in the heart – all are alien,
all foreign things become our own;
only remembered past feels near,
while living souls to ghosts are grown.
All homo-sapiens, one clan,
the former age, forgotten friends,
laughter and smoke of fragile nights,
sweet dreams where weary longing bends -
without a spark of faith in God
they stepped into conscious being’s flame.

Where dwells the shade of sacred light,
and every fruit that once was banned,
and verses of the ancient Law,
and Grail of waters dried to sand—
there mortal reason first began
within the roots of its own sin.

Sacred capital - religion and power

He raised an altar minted out of coin,
where gods of change preserved their ancient law;
replacing prayer with blockchain’s coded join,
he walked with hunger that would never thaw.

Toward the lord of unseen global lines,
of nations’ flocks and unicorns of worth,
of dynasties and Hebrew burial signs,
crowned not without gold laurels from the earth -
the gatekeeper of palaces divine,
who guards the threshold of celestial halls.

Where temple and the market share one dome,
there words become a bond, and prayer a debt;
the sermon stands as profit’s annual sum,
and faith in capital is coded law, well set.

And shepherds leading sleepers into dreams
will chant a song engraved in passing years:
the mask falls off, and naked passion gleams -
sacred capital, religion, power, and fear.

Blue blood

I
O youthful wanderer, in daylight’s flame,
you chased your dream through deserts grim and wide,
on crusade paths to win a cooling stream,
a blue-born spring where hidden truths reside.
Not passion’s fire, nor blush of mortal glow,
but veins as pale and pure as morning’s breath
turned back your road toward peaks of wiser snow,
and led your steps beyond the realm of death.

II
You roamed among the palaces of stone
where marble shone and pride was carved in white,
yet found but ruby blood in halls alone
and memory’s cold shadow in their light.
In gardens heavy with an unknown ache,
and bells that groaned with nameless, distant tone,
your gaze rose skyward, seeking heaven’s wake,
and soon your path became the open sea.

III
Within the capital of yellow khans,
the birthplace of all tyrants’ ancient reign,
where Himalayas whisper endless time
and gold gives birth to careless joy and gain,
where cunning walks with pleasure side by side
and peace itself seems born of sweet disguise,
there followed worlds of contradiction’s tide -
yet still one truth endured before your eyes:
the colour of all blood is ever red.

IV
Across the harsh Atlantic’s shadowed span,
toward another chapter yet unknown,
through fires of native dances on the sand,
through painted cloth and rhythms overthrown,
in northern winds and Latin storms of fire,
in passion’s whirl and drunkenness of loss -
even there you found no sign, no higher choir,
no tremor of that blue blood you once sought.

V
For always, everywhere, it is the same -
only the blood of earth within our veins;
the world is wild, unruled by noble claim,
and order sings in fragile, human strains.
Blue blood flows only in the gods above,
within their code - the sixth eternal law.

The three ages of woman and death

Within the veil of time and drowned-out shade,
drawn by the thirst of sunset’s fading flame,
among sad eyes where spring’s first waters played,
and youth lies hidden by a bridal name,

an uninvited guest - the spell’s dark bride,
the bearer of death’s silent sign and vow -
awaited her, as sheep await their guide,
his staff prepared for grey-haired nuptial now.

The old one beckons, rasping, darkly sweet,
enticing toward the torment past the door;
and takes her firmly by the fragile sleeve,
entwining loss she cannot flee once more.

Capricious, all-powerful is the choice
that falls on those whose trembling voices fade,
where Christ’s protection weakens in its force,
and mortal breath grows frightened and afraid.

And fallen dreams - her only consolation -
may bloom again in some eternal land,
or vanish westward, lost in desolation,
carried away by death’s relentless hand.

After the painting by Hans Baldung

The wind of history – the unseen wind

The wind of history,
the invisible wind…

Poplars stand in glory,
half-orthodox in form,
warriors have risen,
nursed on substitution’s norm.

Sanctions blaze in crimson light,
nerves are drawn and tightly bound,
katanas sharpened for the fight,
golden clocks tick without sound.

Psychohistory
is sealed in stone,
genomes multiplied,
the wolves left unfed,
the East laid low -
the Vatican’s account
has grown instead.

The world stands shaken
by history’s breath…
driven by quanta -
the wind of history!
The unseen wind…

Let the heavens call…

Let heaven call - I heed its cry,
my blade of frost, a noble way;
no pact with devils shall I try
to breathe again heaven’s gift away.

My worth is this: to take my place
within the universe’s scheme,
the measured mind of time and space,
and harmony of inspired rhyme.

For I am shaped by sacred speech,
illumined by the Russian word;
through verse alone my soul may reach
the truth the ages have conferred.

Universe — a philosophical and cultural concept

Do not destroy morality in the living…

Within the depths of tangled coils,
where heritage in secret lies,
there spreads a web of mystic lines
that sets the bounds of being’s size.
There stands the quantum of amazed mankind,
who dares to probe the world’s own soul,
driven by the thirst of time,
and scars the code of life’s deep scroll.

Unknowing measure, end, or stay,
he cuts through words and fate alike,
in hope: “A bodiless world shall rise—
what rots, we’ll cast into the fire.”
But is the flesh a flawed design,
and reason some almighty guest?
What lives without a human heart
must surely turn to wrath and pest.

Defect and virus may be slain—
yet where does global danger lie?
All that in nature’s script is placed
is what must be, though stars may cry.
You rule us now — then be our guide,
a wiser brother, not our lord:
not soulless master of the code,
nor courtly knight of sharpened sword.

Make boundless changes, shape the whole—
but do not kill the living soul.
Lest man become a machine with end,
become Creator — weave and rhyme the Spiral*.

* the DNA micro-molecule

P.S. Dedicated to the revolutionaries of genetic engineering
and the creators of CRISPR-Cas9

Without exaggeration

In friendship — be faithful;
to cunning — reply with a smile;
be sound in the body and mind.
Beware of words from a woman’s lips,
save only the psalm*.

* a genre and form of prayer-poetry

Death

Blind and cruel among the race of men,
how many deaths the world has yet to see;
all faces fade, and once-smooth skin
is traced by wrinkles, troubling even the young.

And blood grows heavy in the grieving eyes,
the final drop dissolves at last in tears.
What once seemed dear now loses all its worth,
for in that other world
there is no tenderness steeped in wine.

And the same shudder felt at one such sight
will beckon another with its bony hand;
no guiding star you follow through the night
will spare you — youth itself she will not stand.

Until philosophers become kings

Until philosophers ascend as kings,
the empire roots itself within your mind;
along the streets the firing squads will march,
where brother, blind to brother, with a warlike hand
robs generations of their rightful prize—
to live in joy, to love, and to be themselves.

The third Rome

For crowns that glitter and for phantom power,
the soul is cast into voracious flame;
to please unending greed, one walks an hour
between the paths of falsehood and of shame.

And Rome, heir to destruction’s crown,
with slaves made pure beneath the cross of pain,
amid the cries of pagan ravens’ sound,
embraced the law of death’s domain.
It donned the wreath of fallen might,
a pompous tomb of grief and pride,
and buried statesman-thought and father-right
in wilful tides of time denied.

Eternal Rome, toward the burning dawn,
with restless ache within the breast,
descended from its seven hills,
the sorrowed son of phantom quests.

From Byzantium’s forsaken gate,
from thresholds of imperial dream,
it turned toward the Orthodox East,
to seek again the primal stream.

And now, at history’s crossing road,
shall you behold the children’s fall?
Will genius born of victory’s code
redeem your fate — or doom you all
to chase once more elusive halls,
false palaces of hollow call?

Perelman and Shedim

P:
Whose spirit and whose reason now draws near?
I sense an uneasy tremor in the air. 
I sit unmoving, ringed by depths of night,
and hear a measured voice invade my heart,
appear before me, question, and inquire…

S:
You called? You thirst for numbers’ burning fire?
As others taste the fruits of ruling might,
they trade the spirit of their youthful freedom
for chains of galleys, harsh and bound to oars,
and waste the hymn of hope their fathers sang!

P:
It is as so — I dream of countless proofs!
Perhaps this dialogue is but a dream,
a fleeting instant in the mind’s deep sleep.
If not, then see what now disturbs my thought:
my reason multiplies in ranks of signs,
in structure seeks a three-dimensional rise,
and marvels at the many forms of space!

I’ll show you — this is how the current flows:
Poincaré* — the foundation of the world.
All night my mind is darkened by this burden,
I glimpse the symbols of calculation’s path,
and still I seek the key to resolution…

S:
Do not be hasty in this pact of yours.
There is a road from passion and revolt —
through me, and through life-giving sleep,
through shaken hands and whispered terms that say:

Whoever grasps the answer of his dream
shall cast away the gilded hand of fame;
the deserter finds but silence and the grave,
while others gain a lesson, food for mind…

P:
So let it be! My lot is cast in truth.
For knowledge’ glory and the faith of ages,
my soul abides within The Temple of Solomon’s
and with it Poincaré — an icon, never burned.


Grigori Perelman — Russian mathematician,
symbol of pure devotion to knowledge,
intellectual honesty, and the universality of mathematics
(solved the Poincaré conjecture).

Shedim — a spirit in the Tanakh
Poincaré conjecture (1904) — the greatest problem of 20th-century mathematics

Satoshi’s masterpiece or, a logical history

To us belongs the wonder of the chain,
the blockchain’s charm, the speed of flawless trade;
this algorithm sings like pure soprano,
for years it pleased the merchants unafraid—
yet do not rub your hands in triumph now too soon.

And I shall speak of this without delay,
and stir both awe and fear within the crowd,
upon the markets’ floors, in sudden sway—
confusion rising, trembling voices loud.

For in the final, fateful moment hear:
the weakest place is always hidden there—
in secret bonds where trust becomes the snare,
in blind belief in Bitcoin’s liquid prayer,
in regulator’s ban — behold it so,
the fragile link where fortune’s sinews go.

Thus, coin distributed among the people wide,
praised by believers as a sacred sign;
yet mining’s labour, centralized in pride,
becomes both offering and spoil of shrine.

Such wonders every age is doomed to see:
through wars and kings, through hardened hands of rule,
Bitcoin has grown by fever’s legacy
and thickened like a bar of molten gold.

Alas!
Unshaken stands the moral law, forgot by all.
Look to the root and hear my voice’s call:
in time it too shall vanish in the years—
a promised land of greed dissolves in tears,
like faith and dogma, lost to labour’s sleep,
and with it comes the law that none can keep—
the law of self-destruction, dark and deep.

Millstones and power

The sowing machine, millstones and power
seek no passage to the borders of grace
rather than be the darkness on the horizon’s face,
and hide my pain, I’ll choose the abyss this time.

Having overcome my spirit and its pride,
the seed of vengeance I sow like an old rite;
since what came before has grown stale, for you I’ll cast aside
the good that was turning into a poisonous bite.

So, burn my world or drown it in tears;
transfer your order and law into the heart.
With a scrap of paper, let that old consciousness be laid to rest
or, by all means create something new

Moscow

The unwritten law, the bloodied hound,
that left its trace along the boulevard.
The bridges burned, the passport where the double-headed eagle frowned,
has filled my lungs with sombre, heavy sorrow.
Here, a crust of bread was once enough for many,
and shows were staged for every twisted taste,
yet memory will keep, with scorn uncanny,
the exile’s temper and the ace up his sleeve, disgraced.
Two centuries on and self-immolation again,
the spirit crushed in my own Moscow still;
and those untouched by freedom’s fevered pain
await their train in a stiffened, heartless mill.

Outcast

In the courtyard, the pagans gather—
beneath the dome, an uneasy quiet.
Before the storm, the fading flower
wilts in silence, soft and crushed.

A coil of wormwood winds in prayer,
bleeding through the lustful night.
Al-Aqsa’s mosque crowned with worldly glare—
power’s thirst foretells its blight.

The Promised Land will march to war,
drawn into a hopeless round;
where once the covenant was law,
now only ash and exile’s sound.

The four horsemen of the apocalypse

We will not slay the foe by sight—
he comes again, as ever fated,
upon a horse of ghostly white,
the nameless rider consecrated.

A crown he wears, a bow he strains,
his gift to man: disease and guile.
The fever spreads through blood and brains,
and they shall name him Plague the while.

The second came—an Angel of Vengeance,
his mare a raging chestnut flame;
with blood and battle for his sentence,
War was the burden of his name.

To him was given a mighty sword,
and right to seize the earth entire;
the martyr’s blood became his hoard,
a draught to feed his holy fire.

Then came the knight in sable shroud,
his steed as black as sleepless sin;
through war’s long smoke he rode unbowed—
Famine was the shade within.

The scales he bore would weigh on men’s trials,
the meagre grain, the broken yield;
and want would walk through dusty miles—
the fourth one now takes up the field.

And lo — I looked, a pale horse came,
and Death rode out, his visage bare;
the living left were but a frame,
a quarter clung to poisoned air.

And he who’d passed the former three,
through torment, blood, and choking breath—
had faced his final prophecy,
and drawn his last—resisting—death.

Exodus

To chords of springtime expectation,
we trust again, as once before;
to rainy, sullen declarations—
and losing ranks once more in war.

Enough of dreams of flourishing;
illusion blooms within the dell.
The brittle leaves, for all their colouring,
now serve the privy’s purpose well.

So hoarse, uneasy, in these verses,
with words half-scratched and half-believed:
you swore devotion—false and cursive!
your people stumble, self-deceived.

Foretelling still, my lines awaken
a fist of rhyme, a dawn intoned;
and every dusk I praise, unshaken—
your final leaving, carved in stone.

Diamond and coal

Prologue:
Thus spoke Zarathustra:
“This new tablet, O my brothers, I give to you:
Be steadfast.”

The beginning

From the dark womb under the weight of the deep,
where time lies sleeping, and light is but one,
nursed by pain, through fire and dust,
two brothers rose from the earth’s crust.

The first—he sparkled, brief yet bright.
The second—mute, a stone of night.

Dialogue:
COAL

Tell me, brother, why so cruel—
why gleam eternal like a blade?
Once you were as I, in darkness ruled,
burning in that tomb we made.

Remember the depths we shared, the heat,
the iron womb that forged our breath?
You rose in stone, in fortress set,
I turned to ash beneath the death.

DIAMOND

I remember—all the gloom,
the weight that pressed against my chest.
You burned away; I bore the wound,
and centuries sealed me to the test.

You give your warmth but for an hour,
your light consumed, your embers vain;
I shine within, a soul’s cold power—
your dust forgets, my facets remain.

You’re smoke and restlessness combined,
I am the star—the essence, refined.

COAL

Yet who brings more good to men?
I labour in their daily flame.
You gleam in crowns of gilded den,
while in furnaces remain.

I warm their flesh, I bake their bread,
you are the chill of vaulted tombs.
In me burns life, in you—the dead.
Perfection fits in narrow rooms.

The speech of the diamond

I asked not for praise, nor worship’s fire;
I suffered long beneath desire.
I sought no mountain’s pride or fame—
I only learned to bear the name.

Ages pierced my silent core,
darkness pressed and pity tore.
No cry, no curse—I turned within,
transformed by patience, not by sin.

My visible light—mistake it not for pride.
I became myself, with no goddess as guide.
I became myself, to guard what’s true,
to hallow life with stony hue.

No blood I hold yet pulse I keep—
the earth’s own breath runs slow and deep.
Your surface fades, but every scar,
each cut I bear—a lived memoir.

Had you endured both pain and shade,
your fear and glory unmade by trade,
we’d stand together, crownless, whole—
two faces of one mortal soul.

The speech of coal

You speak in truth—you’re strong, complete,
granite-born, without deceit.
You blaze reflection from within,
while I burn out for others’ kin.

Still, you command, you make men shake—
is perfection a gift, or a grave mistake?
Is life itself but will’s sharp edge,
where warmth alone unlocks the pledge?

I forge the metal, I warm the home,
for smith and dreamer, I become their loam.
I need no glory, I bear the weight—
to pull the cart is my estate.

My brother eternal, you choose repose,
I choose the toil that mercy knows.
To delve, to fade, to sometimes fall—
some are born to shine, and some—to fuel all.

Finale

So, in the dark where mirrors cease,
where every soul is pressed to peace,
we’re crystals forged by fate’s command—
to cut, to shape, to understand.

Shall two together conquer all,
or sever creation’s fragile wall?
To rule by bliss, or yield by fire—
in bronze or for the true empire?

If noble grace is what you seek,
then learn my final law to speak:

Knowledge is the sharpest blade,
Flame with steel—the crowned arcane.
And all who forge truth from the soul,
shall gleam and warm as diamond and coal.