Gray Hedgehog

I'm a gray hedgehog with spikes inside.
So different from the world outside.
I'm a victim of serious, sad mornings.
You’ve called me perfectly “anonymous”.

I write my poems every season.
A little trifle, perhaps no reason.
You may not read them, think them small,
But still, you love me, most of all.

11.10.2025

5th Season (War edition)

Summer is burning,
Autumn is closing,
Winter is coming,
Spring is dozing.
I am never waiting
for the fifth season —
the one unending,
for some reason.

Too much noise
through the wires of the world —
sirens, prayers,
and smoke unfurled.
Bombs bloom high
in the broken sky,
and death crawls slow
where children hide.
February’s breath
has lasted three years,
still cold in the lungs,
still tasting of fears.
Shadows waltz
in a red-lit glare,
and horror counts
each whispered prayer.
I turn off the screen,
but it hums in my head —
thousands still alive,
thousands dead.

Come —
to my voice,
where ashes bloom instead of flowers,
where the wind turns woolen
and silence towers,
and all tears of the world
gather into one hold.

And the fifth season —
keeps staining —
for no reason.

10.10.2025

Fifth Season

Winter is coming…
Spring is following…
Summer is reigning…
Autumn is closing…
And I am waiting
for the fifth season
that isn’t coming
for some reason.

Too much noise

flows through the wires of the world —
I am cooked, I am hurled.
I turn off the screen,
let it fall into the void,
to avoid
its relentless gleam.

Come —
to my voice,
where ashes bloom instead of flowers,
where the wind turns woolen 

and silence towers,
and all the waters of the earth
gather into a single hole.
I am the fifth season —

and I come,
for some reason.

10.10.2025

Autumn

The tops of trees are crowned with fire:
yellow, red — their brief desire.
Leaves falling, falling, one by one,
the year grows old, the warmth is done.

A sadness pulls them, soft, profound,
down, down — to meet the ground.
They don’t expect miracles anymore —
everything’s happened all before.

The wind sweeps them through fields and sand,
to borders cold, to no-man’s land.
It whispers low, with voice of bone,
“You fall — but never fall alone.”

The earth receives them, dark, wind-blown,
all that returns — will feel like home.
In sacred sleep, they dream again —
forever, ever — leaf and rain.

09.10.2025