I wrote this poem as someone seeking solace not in glory, but in the intimacy of trembling; not at the summit, but in the hollow of autumn, where the spiral of thought sinks.

The final sunflower, that image looking up at the sky from its roots covered by earth, is not a naive promise of rebirth. It is a deep desire to reappear with different eyes, to continue looking even from the abyss, and to turn solitude into a solar gesture.

This poem seeks not only readers, but accomplices in silence. It is not offered as an explanation of the world, but as a testimony to its mystery.

— Gabriel Ganiarov

I wrote about the water
about time
I described the burnished metal
its scents
I know mourning and its bronze shield
the mountains of brandished fury

I reached for the unbridled roses
I treasure the first dawn
the thunder of foliage
the birds that flew back to the nest

I hear the pulse of water
I hear the world's own pulsing
it is pure space, untouchable,
igneous
it is a caress of untamed gesture

I searched within autumn’s hollows
the cold wire of the sackcloth I wear
sinking the spiral
below all else
this unfathomable vein
of tears in the ocean

Everything I’ve ever read
speaks of resplendent heroes
gods, broadswords
celestial solemnities

but nothing speaks to me
of how I need myself
of how to smile at myself alone
of how to flee the great sea
and drift away, solitary, through its heartbeats

Perhaps my solace will be
once covered
sheltered in mother earth
to be reborn wrapped
gazing skyward like a sunflower

J'ai écrit sur l'eau,
sur le temps.
J'ai décrit le métal poli,
ses parfums.
Je connais le deuil et son bouclier de bronze,
les montagnes de fureur brandie.

J'ai tendu la main vers les roses débridées,
je chéris la première aube,
le tonnerre du feuillage,
les oiseaux qui sont revenus au nid.

J'entends le pouls de l'eau
J'entends le pouls du monde
C'est un espace pur, intouchable,
igné
C'est une caresse au geste sauvage

J'ai cherché dans les creux de l'automne
le fil froid du sac que je porte
enfonçant la spirale
au-dessous de tout le reste
cette veine insondable
de larmes dans l'océan

Tout ce que j'ai lu
parle de héros resplendissants
de dieux, d'épées larges
de solennités célestes

mais rien ne me parle
de mon besoin de moi-même
de la façon de sourire à moi-même seul
de la façon de fuir la grande mer
et de dériver, solitaire, à travers ses battements de cœur

Peut-être que mon réconfort sera
une fois recouvert
abrité dans la terre mère
de renaître enveloppé
le regard tourné vers le ciel comme un tournesol

Escribí sobre el agua 
sobre el tiempo
describí al metal bruñido 
sus olores
conozco al luto y su escudo de bronce
a las montañas de furia enarbolada


aspiré a las desatadas rosas
atesoro al primer amanecer
el trueno del follaje
las aves que volaron hasta el nido

Oigo el pulso del agua
oigo al pulsar del mundo
es espacio puro, inasible,
ígneo
es caricia de gesto indomable

busqué en las cavidades del otoño
al frio alambre del sayal que visto
hundiendo la espiral
más abajo de todas
esta veta insondable
de las lágrimas en el océano

Todo aquello que he leído
habla sobre héroes refulgentes
dioses, mandobles
Celestes circunspectas

pero nada me habla
del cómo yo me necesito
de cómo sonreírme a mí solo
del cómo huir del magno mar
y alejarme solitario en sus latidos

Quizás mi consuelo sea
una vez cubierto
abrigado en la madre tierra
renacer envuelto
mirando al cielo como un girasol

Gabriel Ganiarov
Copyrigth: 2016


I wrote about the water

Gabriel Ganiarov
My work is born where language collapses and the tremor takes root. I write poems: I summon resonances. I am neither a producer nor a beatmaker: I am a poet who has learned to breathe with machines, to dance with code, to translate electricity into memory.

This sonic space I inhabit is the extension of my writing. Every song you hear here was conceived from the pulse of a poem—not one that aspires to formal perfection, but to the crack, the fold, the lingering echo of a soul that refuses to be silenced.

I call this gesture synaptic poetry: a lyrical architecture woven from unexpected connections—between word and algorithm, between emotion and machine, between exile and belonging. The melodies that accompany me here were designed with artificial intelligence, but it is my voice that activates them, my story that embodies them, my resistance that gives them meaning. There is no artifice without soul.

I am part of a displaced, fragmented generation—but not a silenced one. I come from the analog age and have evolved into the digital. That is why my aesthetic answers to what I call the Poetics of the Margin: not a lesser aesthetic, but an ethical stance. I write from the edges of the cultural map and from the fissures of the industry; I sing from the diaspora, not as a victim, but as a witness, as an exile of noise and a cartographer of whisper.

Here, on this profile, converge verses sung in more than one language, rhythms that have crossed sonic borders, and wounds that, when they dance, become bridges. Listening to these songs is opening the door to a lyrical continent where nostalgia merges with the digital pulse, and intimacy becomes expansive.

Welcome to this musical frontier where poems pulse and scars sing.
Here there is center, there is root.
Here there is homeland, there is voice.
Here, you can hear the rain falling—and also create from the beat, let the glitch run free, and endow poetry with binary code, in tune with the times we live in…

Poet,Author,Composer,Songwriter. Proudly born in Venezuela, living in Perú
kata ton daimona eiatoy
Follower of the Ligth

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