Ce poème est né du refus obstiné d’une main qui écrit malgré l’aveuglement du monde. Il explore les tensions entre la vérité et le mensonge, la justice et la chute, le visible et l’occulté. C’est une méditation sur la coexistence du bien et du mal dans l’ombre partagée de notre humanité. J’ai voulu y déposer la voix silencieuse de ceux qu’on n’écoute pas, la sagesse de ceux qu’on oublie. Ce poème est une prière lucide, un souffle offert à celles et ceux qui doutent encore… qu’ils demandent.
Gabriel Ganiarov


Ma main
têtu
continue d'écrire
ce que tes yeux ne veulent pas voir
le fécond et le stérile
décrivant l'offensé 
l'outragé
les bienheureux
les exclus
les racines du bien et du mal
entrelacées dans le cœur silencieux de mon moi intérieur

l'injuste et le déchu ne sont pas le même homme
l'arbre du mal et celui du bien coexistent dans la même ombre
parce que chacun a
une essence indestructible
dans la nuit de l'ego pygmée

Quelle sentence y aurait-il entre la chair honnête et l'esprit faux ?
Quelle phrase y aurait-il entre la chair fausse et l'esprit honnête ?

Peut-être que je ne vois
rien de nouveau ni d'étonnant
seulement le beau paysage dans tes cils
déléguant ta juridiction à ma miséricorde

plein de mots
les plaçant autour d'une clôture
dans l'acier maudit des jugements
moins généreux que le pain

Il était une fois...
nous sommes tous morts
dans le feuillage cuivré
des hypothèses....

Si vous doutez...
demandez...

My hand
stubborn
keeps writing
what your eyes don't want to see
the fruitful and the sterile
describing the offended 
the outraged
the blessed
the outcast
the roots of good and evil
interwoven in the silent heart inside me

the unjust and the fallen are not the same man
the evil tree and the good coexist in the same shadow
because each one has
indestructible essence
in the night of the pygmy ego

What sentence would there be between the honest flesh and the false spirit?
What sentence would there be between the false flesh and the honest spirit?

Perhaps I do not see
nothing new or amazing
only the beautiful landscape in your eyelashes
delegating its jurisdiction to my mercy

full of words
putting them around
in the cursing steel of the judgments
less generous than bread

Once upon a time...
we have all died
in the copper foliage
of assumptions....

If you doubt...
ask...

Mi mano
terca
sigue escribiendo
lo que tus ojos no quieren ver
lo fructuoso y lo estèril
describiendo al ofendido 
al ultrajado
al bendecido
al proscrito
las raices del bien y del mal
entretejidos en el corazòn silencioso de mi adentro

El injusto y el caìdo no son el mismo hombre
el àrbol malo y el bueno coexisten en la misma sombra
porque cada uno tiene
esencia indestructible
en la noche del ego pigmeo

¿Que sentencia habrìa entre la honesta carne y el falso espìritu?
¿Que sentencia habrìa entre la falsa carne y el honesto espìritu?

Quizàs no veo
nada nuevo ni asombroso
sòlo el hermoso paisaje en tus pestañas
delegando su fuero a mi merced

Salgo conmigo
lleno de palabras
ponìendoles cerco
en el acero maldiciente de los juicios
menos dadivosos que el pan

Alguna vez...
todos hemos muerto
en los follajes de cobre
de las suposiciones....

Si Dudas…
pregunta…


Author:
Gabriel Ganiarov
Copyrigth: 2015

Ma main

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
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