Author’s Note
Though the words “God,” “from God,” or “for God” appear throughout these texts, they do not belong to any specific denomination, religion, or tradition. These poems are not declarations of dogma, nor do they confine themselves to a single spiritual path. They were not born from a need to convert, but from an inner need — from a silent dialogue between the heart and the unseen.
Faith is not a commandment. It is not an obligation, nor a requirement for understanding. One may possess it or not. One may seek, wander, remain silent, or burn with questions. These words do not judge. They do not draw lines. They do not demand or condemn. They are simply a record of a journey — one that could unfold in any human being, regardless of name, worldview, or history.
It is not about what “the author meant.”
That question — though common — loses meaning here. What gains meaning instead is something quieter, more personal:
What does your soul see in the mirror of these words?
Perhaps it is not understanding that matters most, but encounter.
Not interpretation, but that quiet trembling inside — reminding the heart that it still feels, still sees, still lives.
These poems are a space — not a statement.
A space where one may sit, be silent, be moved — or simply pass by.
And each of those responses is wholly valid.
Introduction
Out of the need of the heart, out of gratitude and reflection, these words were born — prayers, hymns, songs of the soul. Their source was silence, light, and the experience of everyday life filtered through the presence of God. I wanted these texts to reach further — beyond the borders of language. That is why, with the help of ChatGPT, I translated my works from Polish into English.
The translation preserves not only the meaning, but also the rhythm, metaphor, and spiritual tone — so that each word may resonate, both in a soul that speaks Polish and in one that prays in English.
This is not just a linguistic translation.
It is a journey — from heart to heart, beyond the alphabet.
HOW GOOD IT IS
A prayer of gratitude for the gift of hospitality
How good it is to give —
to open the heart like a door without a handle,
to nourish with a glance,
to place a word like bread upon the table.
It is better to give than to receive,
for then the heart blossoms,
and the soul sings,
even if the lips remain silent.
God, I thank You
for those You send from afar,
like angels in human form.
Thank You for their presence,
for the grace of them being — even for a moment —
part of my home.
I thank You sincerely,
my God,
for the gift of hospitality,
which teaches me
that every open hand
is a prayer.
AMEN
Song of the Free Breath
No name was spoken,
and yet the Heart of Eternity pulsed to the rhythm of presence.
No prayer, no sign—
and yet the Light passed through darkness, asking no permission.
Before the seed of faith was ever sown,
Love was already circling the spirals of destiny,
like the Star card shining upon the night waters of the soul,
like the Surah of Mercy inscribed upon the unseen parchments of fate.
There was no need to believe, to be touched by Presence.
There was no need to see, to be healed by that which dwells beyond the visible.
There was a body that bore the weight—
and a Spirit that spoke in silence.
There was a wound—
and a light that did not come to drown it,
but to transform it.
And then: freedom.
Not like an escape,
but like a return.
Not like the wings of a bird,
but like the memory that wings were always there.
And now the soul soars—
not to flee, but to remind the world
that Love, which asks for no name,
is the same that created the light before the words “let there be” were ever spoken.
Of the Gates That Know No Key
There was no number that could weigh the heart.
No deed could burn away the shadow.
For Salvation is not forged by works,
but by recognizing the light
that has always dwelled within.
These are not gates of gold,
nor scales of justice,
but a gaze — silent, inward —
that sees the Name hidden within the Name:
Yeshua, meaning “He who restores Wholeness.”
It is not about what the hands have done,
but whether the heart remembers
it was woven from the same breath
that spoke in the Garden before time began.
Salvation does not wait at the end of the path.
Salvation is Remembrance.
Faith is not a bridge,
but the discovery there was never a chasm.
And yet, in His kindness,
He who became Flesh for the nameless
descended into shadow,
to show that even the deepest forgetting
is not stronger than the Light that never went out.
Of the Breath That Stirs the Dance
Not all that moves is a storm.
Not every intensity carries pain.
Sometimes what arrives like fire
comes to remind us of the light hidden in our bones.
The Spirit — not the one from books,
but the One who was before sound and before flame —
does not touch like a judge, but like a Friend.
It does not enter through force,
but through the heart’s consent.
It is not torment, but expansion.
Not weight, but lifting.
As if the air became filled with gold
and poured eternity into the veins.
In Him there is no scream,
though the words of prophets burn.
In Him there is no darkness,
though He reveals what was concealed.
He does not bring us closer to God through knowledge,
but through Remembrance.
He does not push — He leads.
He does not compel — He gently draws,
as light draws a moth in the garden of night.
For it is not the earth that knows the true paths to God,
nor the stars.
But the Spirit — the One who knows the Name,
and the One who speaks it:
Yeshua — the Breath upon the waters.
Of the Fire That Does Not Burn
In the place where pain meets the Name,
darkness does not spill — but light.
Not through clenched fists, but through endurance,
a human becomes the pure reflection of the Unfathomable.
The Name need not be spoken aloud
to become a reason for persecution.
It is enough that it trembles in the heart like a hidden song,
and already the world fears its tone.
Blessed is the one who suffers not from punishment,
but because of Presence.
Blessed is the one who keeps silence,
and yet radiates the Name
that surpasses every hierarchy.
Though they wound — they cannot touch the soul.
Though they reject — they cannot quench the flame.
For where Suffering and Joy dance together,
Freedom is born — a Freedom that defies explanation.
And for this Name —
which belongs not to religion,
but to the Eternal Heart of Consciousness —
it is worth standing still,
even when the earth trembles,
for the reward is not a future.
The reward is the awakened Now.
Of the Light That Is a Name
Not every truth shouts.
Not every truth demands proof.
But there is one that exists beyond time,
that needs no recognition to be Eternal.
It is not a concept.
It is not a belief.
It is a Person —
like Light that dwelled among shadows
and could not be extinguished.
This Truth did not come with weapons,
but with an open heart.
It did not conquer an empire,
but overcame death — not through might,
but through Awakening.
Because of it, breath has meaning.
Because of it, tears become prayer.
Because of it, the night is not an end,
but a passage into a new Name.
The Truth that bears the name Yeshua
needs no approval from the world
to be the foundation of existence.
And though the world hides it — it does not go silent.
Though it is buried — it rises.
For the Truth that came as a Man
is the Light that shines even beneath stone.
And the day will come —
not a day of calendars,
but a day of the heart —
when all will be revealed.
Amen — not as an ending,
but as a seal upon that Truth
which never ceased to be.
Of the One Who Breaks the Bonds
He did not shatter bars.
He did not smash the chains.
And yet the walls ceased to be,
and the bonds became like shadows that vanish at dawn.
He did not come with a cry,
but with a silence that pierced the darkness.
He did not come to fight —
He came to remind,
that the soul was never the world’s possession.
There was a time when man believed he was imprisoned —
in chambers of guilt, in dungeons of fear,
in palaces of the false self.
But He descended — not to punish,
but to open the door from within.
Not by force, but through Awareness.
Not through wrath, but through Love.
For freedom is not escape,
but recognition
that there is nothing left to fear.
And now the soul stands before Him —
without shackles, without masks, without fear.
For the One who came as a Man
is the One who has always been the Key.
Song of the Drop and the Light
Thanks that do not seek answers.
Thanks that flow before a word is spoken.
For a day that did not need to be sunny to be holy.
For the rain that fell like a blessing,
like the tears of heaven — not from sorrow, but from love.
For the veiled sky that embraces
more tenderly than the one lit with gold.
For the silence of morning,
in which the Name can be heard
before lips learn to form it.
O You, who are beyond dawn and dusk,
who sit enthroned in winds and herbs,
who see the heart before it opens —
Thank You.
Not for what is given,
but for the fact that You are.
Not for the greatness of the gifts,
but for their hidden holiness.
Father, who is King not through might,
but through Breath.
Who is Lord not through fear,
but through Endless Goodness.
On the rainy day, the drenched day,
the soul sings. Because it knows You.
For in every drop, in every cloud,
there echoes Your “I Am.”
Of the Peace That Waited
There was joy.
There was happiness — like rays without the sun,
like laughter in an empty house.
Something within trembled,
as if a note was missing from the symphony,
as if the heart could not finish the dance of the song.
And I did not know —
was it silence, or hunger, or the shadow of a memory?
Until it came like a whisper:
it is not the lack of things —
it is the absence of Presence.
In the chase for fullness, I drank salt instead of water.
I stepped into darkness, searching for light.
And He… was.
Not at the gates. Not far away.
But right here — silent,
like Light that does not fade even in a locked room.
When I fell — He did not judge.
When I turned away — He did not vanish.
He waited.
Like a Father who knows the return before it comes.
And now I know.
It is not enough to be happy.
It is not enough to laugh.
For without Him, every joy sounds like an echo in an empty corridor.
With Him — even tears have meaning.
Even silence sounds like prayer.
And even the fall becomes the path of return.
Now life has the shape of arms that received me.
And a heart that never stopped beating for me.
Amen — for the fullness has returned.
Amen — for peace is once again inhabited.
Of the Path That Grows from Within
There are voices —
loud, as if they held the right to shape the course of another’s life.
There are expectations —
woven from the fears of others,
from unfulfilled longings and dreams that are not yours.
They want to see you as a master,
but only if your wisdom speaks in their words.
They want you to be free,
but only if you walk in their chains.
When you give — they want more.
When you are silent — they judge.
And when you stumble —
the stone meant to be your trial
becomes their excuse for condemnation.
But there are other paths.
Silences deeper than applause.
Voices that do not shout — for they are within.
It is a path that does not lead to the stage,
but inward.
A life that does not fulfill the expectations of others,
but blooms according to its own code of being.
Not from rebellion — but from truth.
Not from pride — but from trust.
And when you walk your path,
sometimes alone, sometimes among shadows,
you discover that right there —
beyond their sight —
God had been waiting for you all along.
Of the Prison That Cannot Be Seen
Choices, like leaves in the wind —
and yet no step is taken.
Not because the path is closed,
but because the gaze is fixed on a wall
that isn’t there.
A prison.
Not of stone. Not of metal.
But of beliefs, repeated too often,
until they became law.
It wasn’t others who built these bars.
It was us — from fear, from habit, from forgetting.
From every thought that says, “I can’t.”
From every phrase: “It has to be this way.”
And yet…
Between one thought and the next
there is silence.
And in that silence, there are no bars.
No guards.
No guilt.
There is only freedom —
pure, original,
like light before it was named.
And there is no need to tear down walls.
Only to stop holding them up.
For it is not the walls that imprison —
but the belief in their existence.
Of the Mystery That Wears a Woman’s Face
The beauty of a woman cannot be measured.
It does not yield to angles or formulas.
For her beauty is not a shape — but a presence.
Not the curve of her body — but the gentleness of her soul.
Her cheek is not merely skin —
it is a map of laughter and tears.
Her breast — not an object of desire,
but a place of birth and comfort.
Every mark, every line —
a song of a life fully lived.
A woman’s body does not grow old —
it remembers.
And in that memory, there is glory.
It does not fade — it matures,
like wine from the secret gardens of Sophia.
Her beauty does not cry out.
It endures — quietly, yet unyielding,
like moonlight on the night of its fullness.
Her wisdom need not speak much.
One glance is enough
to remind us what love is —
love that does not take, but receives.
And though the world offers illusions,
though plastic shouts louder than the heart —
it is better to be with the one
who breathes truth,
than with a shadow that feels nothing.
Of What Waits Around the Bend
You wander — with a guarded heart,
expecting emptiness, nothingness, silence.
And yet — unexpectedly —
a ray falls.
Someone reaches out a hand.
Something trembles in the soul.
You thought no one would notice your effort,
and yet someone looks with tenderness.
You thought there would be no light,
and then comes the dawn — quiet, without fanfare.
Such is life.
Not like mathematics,
not like a timetable.
More like a prayer whispered on the run —
not always precise, but often heard.
And God…
He doesn’t arrange all things according to our plans.
But sometimes He plants a flower in the shadow.
Sometimes He leaves a sound in the ruins,
that reminds you everything is still ahead.
You don’t know what awaits —
and thank heavens for that.
For it is in not knowing
that wonder is born.
And wonder —
is the first step toward faith.
Of the Land Where the Sheep Know the Voice
To be among your own —
does not mean to be part of a crowd.
It means to be recognized —
by name, by gaze, by soul.
The flock — not as a mass,
but as a communion of hearts
beating in the same rhythm.
Like a land where milk and honey
are not legend,
but the everyday grace of a heart at peace.
There, wisdom does not shout,
for it lives in simple gestures:
in the offering of a hand,
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