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

This poem was born from the weight and mystery of the urban soul — that vast landscape where forgotten dreams, anonymous courage, and quiet heartbreak coexist. The city is not merely a place; it is a living body that carries echoes of beauty and ruin, tenderness and betrayal. I wrote this piece as an ode to those unseen heroes whose battles are silent, whose smiles are thin but luminous. In every corner, beneath the asphalt heat and the fading afternoon light, I felt their presence — not as myths, but as questions that burn with meaning.

— Gabriel Ganiarov


One might say that the city and its heroes
are like unknown lights
dim memories of memories
that fade away in their soft breaks

And the city is home to
monsters and deceitful maidens
good men
women of sweetened grace

true lovers of skirmishes

The city contains
unheard-of essences
black pools of misfortune
heavy wads of cash

it also harbors in its bowels
the dazzled cry of the poet
the cruelty of the abandoned
the strong caress of the beloved


The city and its heroes
plunge into every drop of light in its afternoons
one after another
their emaciated and smiling faces
like the questions that south of its sun
warm themselves immensely on asphalt...

Diríase de la ciudad y sus héroes
son como luces ignotas
foscos recuerdos de memorias
que se agotan en sus blandos quiebres

Y es que la ciudad alberga
monstruos y doncellas falaces
hombres buenos
mujeres de gracia edulcorada

verdaderos amantes de refriegas

La ciudad contiene
escencias inauditas
pozas negras de infortunios
pesados mazos de billetes

tambien alberga en su entraña
al grito deslumbrado del poeta
a la saña del abandonado
a la caricia fuerte del amado


La ciudad y sus héroes
se despeñan en cada gota de luz de sus tardes
se suceden una a una
sus caras demacradas y sonrientes
como las preguntas que al sur de su sol
se calientan inmensas en asfalto...

Si direbbe della città e dei suoi eroi
sono come luci sconosciute
ricordi oscuri di memorie
che si esauriscono nelle loro morbide fratture

E il fatto è che la città ospita
mostri e fanciulle fallaci
uomini buoni
donne dalla grazia addolcita

veri amanti delle risse

La città contiene
essenze inaudite
pozze nere di sventure
pesanti mazzi di banconote

ospita anche nelle sue viscere
il grido abbagliante del poeta
la crudeltà dell'abbandonato
la forte carezza dell'amato


La città e i suoi eroi
si precipitano in ogni goccia di luce dei suoi pomeriggi
si susseguono uno dopo l'altro
i loro volti emaciati e sorridenti
come le domande che a sud del suo sole
si riscaldano immense sull'asfalto...

On pourrait dire que la ville et ses héros
sont comme des lumières inconnues
des souvenirs sombres
qui s'épuisent dans leurs douces ruptures

Car la ville abrite
des monstres et des demoiselles fallacieuses
des hommes bons
des femmes à la grâce édulcorée

de véritables amateurs de querelles

La ville contient
des essences inconnues
des fosses noires de malheurs
de lourds liasses de billets

elle abrite aussi en son sein
le cri éblouissant du poète
la cruauté de l'abandonné
la caresse forte de l'aimé


La ville et ses héros
se précipitent dans chaque goutte de lumière de ses après-midis
ils se succèdent un à un
leurs visages émaciés et souriants
comme les questions qui, au sud de son soleil
se réchauffent immenses sur l'asphalte...


Gabriel Ganiarov
Copyrigth: 2025

One might say that the city and its hero

Este poema fue escrito en la penumbra de un día que pedía una sola mirada para redimirse. A veces, no es la presencia completa del otro lo que anhelamos, sino su gesto mínimo, su calor en la memoria, su sombra encendida en una esquina del alma. Es una plegaria sin altar, un susurro que no exige, pero arde. El lenguaje aquí no quiere explicar el deseo, sino sostenerlo, habitarlo, rozarlo como quien acerca una mano al fuego sabiendo que no podrá tocarlo sin quemarse. Que cada lector encuentre en estas líneas el eco de sus propias distancias, y en el cruce final de miradas, el milagro de lo que aún persiste.
— Gabriel Ganiarov


Sería demasiado pedir
una sola mirada
que bastase en este día
renaciendo entre tus dedos
para hacer de la distancia
horas más amables

Sería demasiado
tu lumbre en un rincón de la memoria
tomando tu forma
corpórea
diciendo en la mirada
que puedes franquear el abismo

Es mi corazón que arde
en el viento inútil de extrañar
lo que somos
lo que fuimos
en el hambre excelsa de la carne
quieta en el silencio

Es mi mano ardiendo en tu pecho
como un espejo de agua
que camina sobre sombras...

Desde tus ojos
y los míos


It would be too much to ask
for a single glance
to suffice on this day
reborn between your fingers
to make the distance
more pleasant hours.

It would be too much
your light in a corner of memory
taking your shape
corporeal
saying in your gaze
that you can cross the abyss.

It is my heart that burns
in the useless wind of missing
what we are
what we were
in the sublime hunger of the flesh
still in silence

It is my hand burning on your chest
like a mirror of water
walking on shadows...

From your eyes
and mine

Ce serait trop demander
un seul regard
qui suffirait en ce jour
renaissant entre tes doigts
pour rendre la distance
plus agréable

Ce serait trop demander
ton feu dans un coin de la mémoire
prenant ta forme
corporelle
disant dans ton regard
que tu peux franchir l'abîme

C'est mon cœur qui brûle
dans le vent inutile de regretter
ce que nous sommes
ce que nous étions
dans la faim sublime de la chair
immobile dans le silence

C'est ma main qui brûle sur ta poitrine
comme un miroir d'eau
qui marche sur les ombres...

Depuis tes yeux
et les miens


Sarebbe troppo chiedere
un solo sguardo
che bastasse in questo giorno
rinascendo tra le tue dita
per rendere la distanza
ore più gentili.

Sarebbe troppo
il tuo fuoco in un angolo della memoria
che prende la tua forma
corporea
dicendo con lo sguardo
che puoi superare l'abisso.

È il mio cuore che brucia
nel vento inutile di rimpiangere
ciò che siamo
quello che siamo stati
nella sublime fame della carne
immobile nel silenzio

È la mia mano che arde sul tuo petto
come uno specchio d'acqua
che cammina sulle ombre...

Dai tuoi occhi
e dai miei

Gabriel Ganiarov
Copyright: 2020

English summary: dawn over distant rooftops – poetry by Gabriel Ganiarov

Espejo de agua

Juju Finaz  ~ T+O+X+I+C

À contre-ciel
Cette chanson est née du vertige quotidien, de cet instant sombre où le corps se lève avec effort pour affronter un jour de plus.
C’est un portrait de l’homme anonyme qui, malgré la fatigue, l’injustice et la colère, ceint ses ailes et continue de voler.
Un chant à la dignité silencieuse, au geste héroïque de persister.
Voler, ici, ce n’est pas fuir : c’est résister.
— Gabriel Ganiarov


Sombre,
il se lève,
recourt à certains artifices
comme s'étirer
pour ceindre ses ailes et voler au travail.
Voici l’homme
dans la pénombre du rêve qui s’éveille.
Il prend entre ses mains la roue,
le gouvernail qui étreint,
conduit vers les abîmes
qui attendent son arrivée.
Il sent l’essence,
ongles et dents contre le miroir,
livide, il tend son visage
pour gagner son pain,
et chasser ainsi l’ombre de ses yeux.
La rage de lutter
contre les mêmes rouges ignorants,
ceux qui vont et viennent affligés,
allongeant le regard dans la misère,
auscultant parmi les miettes
la paresse des autres pour en profiter.
Ses ailes sont de bonnes ailes,
elles l’élèvent
au-dessus de l’abattement mesquin de la vie
qui plane, menaçante, sur notre sol.
Homme exemplaire,
espérance au bord des lèvres,
sueur qui ouvre des sillons,
attente inépuisable qui dissipe la brume de l’âme.
Son vol est lumineux.
Au crépuscule,
il cherche le baiser
pour se défaire
de tous les fils de pute de la terre.
Il suspend ses ailes teintées de fumée,
attendant la confirmation
d’une nouvelle aube,
du jour qui par ses bruits
lui dit qu’il est encore vivant.
Qu’il doit ceindre ses ailes
à nouveau,
et continuer à voler à contre-ciel.

Hosco,
se levanta,
recurre a ciertos artificios,
como estirarse
para ceñirse las alas y volar al trabajo.
He aquí al hombre
en la penumbra del sueño que despierta.
Toma entre sus manos el timón,
el gobernalle que lo aprieta,
y lo conduce hacia los abismos
que aguardan su llegada.
Huele a gasolina,
uñas y dientes contra el espejo,
lívido, tensa el rostro
para ganarse el pan
y así espantar la sombra de sus ojos.
La rabia de luchar
contra los mismos rojos ignorantes,
los que van y vienen afligidos,
alargando la mirada en la miseria,
auscultando entre las migajas
la desgana ajena para aprovecharla.
Son buenas alas las suyas,
lo elevan
por encima del abatimiento mezquino de la vida
que se cierne, amenazante, sobre nuestro suelo.
Hombre ejemplar,
esperanza al borde de los labios,
sudor que abre surcos,
espera inagotable que disipa la niebla del alma.
Su vuelo es luminoso.
Al crepúsculo,
busca el beso
para deshacerse
de todos los hijos de puta de la tierra.
Cuelga sus alas teñidas de humo,
esperando la confirmación
de una nueva aurora,
del día que con sus ruidos
le dice que aún está vivo.
Que debe ceñirse sus alas
una vez más,
y continuar volando a contracielo.


Gabriel Ganiarov
Copyright: 2014

Á contre-ciel

NEW HEAT ALERT! Jah has been quiet for the past month and a half, and now we know why. With the release of A GHETTO STORY, the artist takes us deeper into his unique sound. In a recent interview, Jah stated, "WE UNLOCKED THE CHEATCODE, now the work is going to be more consistent than ever. The tape is an experimental exercise of what's to come, so just enjoy and look out, because a wave is about to hit soon." We can't wait to hear more, as this artist never disappoints. Enjoy A GHETTO STORY! 

A Ghetto Story

Coinbase/Da Bolde$t

Buy Album Link

Slayer (prod.zivo)

music video :   https://youtu.be/EgAdt4KeJVo
Lyrics:
The city dreams in black and white
A steady drone and it won’t hold back tonight
Thoughts flicker like neon signs
Who could calm a million restless minds
We live in a world that spins

Just block out the static
And let it all fade
There’s no need to panic
It should come easy
I block out the static
I let it all fade away

I’m used to chasing every storm
Drawn to the wild road that’s never warm
But every turn just led me back
Yeah everywhere I go well there I am
Chaos made me feel alive
Never asked myself how I’d survive
If the world stopped spinning

Just block out the static
And let it all fade
There’s no need to panic
It should come easy

Like the waves upon the shore
Like the seasons changing evermore
Like you’re drifting off to sleep
It should be easy

Just like the waves upon the shore
Like the seasons change evermore
Just like you’re drifting off to sleep
Just like the wave of energy

No need to try, no need to fight
A thousand voices wrapped in flashing lights
The louder it gets, the more I see
There’s no escape to the endless energy
But none of it can reach me here
Just the stillness ringing in my ears

Just block out the static
And let it all fade
There’s no need to panic
It should come easy
I block out the static
I let it all fade away

Static

Winter Froze  (prod. Pietsbeats x prod. bjc)


The In a Hometown album represents the early points of my songwriting and music career.  These are the very first songs I wrote and recorded. It’s mainly about the different feelings and experiences – good or bad – that come with growing up. I feel like a lot of people will relate to In a Hometown.”

The album’s title track In a Hometown is meant to look back and reflect on all the crazy times we had in Oklahoma.  The lyrics describe everything that happens while growing up in a small hometown and what I focused on. Often, my method for getting over a girl was finding trouble and kickin’ back with the guys, which I think is a relatable story.  There's a lot about finding your way through life as things change, relationships change, and you walk your path of ups and downs.

In a Hometown

Jack Daniels Cologne

Linktree Cam Allen 

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