Marina Eugenie di Cervini
Follow your heart
FROM THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
Thus, I am silent, trembling in my place,
Not from disdain, nor yet a heart’s disgrace.
Nay, ’tis the weight of love, too vast, too deep,
That binds my tongue and bids my silence keep.
Let this poor book, my messenger, unfold,
The truths of hearts unspoken, yet untold.
Within its pages, find my soul laid bare,
A plea for justice in life’s fleeting air.
William Shakespeare
The first lines I ever wrote emerged one day in the quiet solitude of a blank notebook. I began not merely to describe what I observed, but to capture the essence of what I felt. At the time, I was steeped in sorrow, mourning a father whose memory was but a shadow. Though I scarcely recall his presence, he lived. And now, he is no more. How I longed for him to sit before me, clad in a cerulean sweater – as he once appeared in a dream – a man of quiet strength, with the noble visage of a young Alain Delon and eyes brimming with wisdom. How I yearned to hear him say, “If you were born, it is because this world needs you. Your path is written; you must find it. And within it, your truest self.” But no such words came. I shall never know what it means to have a father’s voice guide me.
As the evening deepened and shadows embraced the room, the rustle of a weeping willow outside drew my thoughts, and I wrote these lines for him:
Weeping willow, why do you bow so low,
Your branches trembling where soft waters flow?
Why do the tears of the earth, like frozen pearls,
Hang on your crown, veiling the world?
Why does my heart bear a shard of despair,
A cold, cruel fragment etched with care?
You left too soon, beyond clouds’ veil,
And now my castle lies in ruins, frail.
You vanished forever, yet left a flame,
A dream that whispers your sacred name.
You are gone, and I am bereft,
As though half of my soul has cleft.
Weeping willow, you guard my grief,
Your shelter offering fragile relief.
Tears fall silent, carving their way,
Through dreams that pierce the heart each day.
This book speaks to you, dear reader. It holds fragments of my soul, whispers of answers, or perhaps faint echoes of your own fears: the chill of solitary sunsets, the silence of unyielding walls, and the fleeting joy of a sunlit breeze, a distant dream that illuminates the soul. Dreams are not mere steps toward an end; they are the journey itself, revealing who we are and why we exist. What is life? A dream? A temptation? Perhaps only in the void left by loss do we begin to glimpse the answer.
For years, I guarded these pages, hesitant to let them see the light. Now, you hold my first book in your hands. The second waits in the wings, long adrift like a spectral ship navigating the seas of my heart. There are those who will find joy – yes, joy – in knowing this book has come to life. They will wait, with reverence, for what follows.
What is this book? Who is its hero, and why will it be read? A book is first and foremost needed by the one who writes it. Through writing, we traverse the labyrinth of words and uncover fragments of ourselves. Is this a tale? A poem? A legend? A truth? Chaos or the final sigh of a fading philosophy? The essence of life lies in learning to listen and to see, to create and to feel, to remain steadfast and true to oneself, in harmony with the infinite.
In the quest for truth, humanity often imprisons itself within “black squares,” forgetting that life flows like a river, where no drop ever repeats. Fear twists the mind, renders paths barren and winding, and makes life seem hollow. Even a spark of fear can ignite flames that raze entire cities. What is this book about? Who needs it? Perhaps it is for those who love me, or for those longing to be heard. Nature gives everything to humanity. Life is the art of preserving, understanding, nurturing, and creating – with warmth in the soul and fire in the heart.
Heart – how often I invoke that word, as though no other could carry my meaning. Yet it is not so. All I write, all I feel, is shaped by the works and life of Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky. He is my eternal teacher; I declared as much during my thesis defence and have never rescinded those words.
One evening in Saint Petersburg, after a literary event, an elderly woman approached me, her hand trembling as it grasped mine. “My child,” she said, “thank you for existing.” That evening, I was needed. And there are others too, those who need my words, my verses, as companions to their solitude. I know what it is to feel the rhythm of a heart – not from the elation of love, but from the aching void of loss, or the fear of losing something irrevocably. In such moments, I do not wish to be alone. My heart is sincere, and sincerity is the pillar that sustains not only the one who holds it but those around them.
Thank you for opening this book and seeking to understand me – and perhaps, through my words, to understand yourself. The idea of these diaries has dwelt within me for as long as I can remember. It is not a memoir but a meditation on why we exist, and why the world was created around us. At times, it is enlightening; at others, deeply melancholic. Yet it always answers a question: Was the step taken, and where did it lead? Life flows on – it is boundless yet fleeting. And I know this: the world is a chronicle we write ourselves. This is what I wish to share with you, dear reader. To affirm that my birth was no accident, and that I yearn to be worthy of this world, to be needed within it.
In these pages, you may find countless imperfections, but behind them lies the tempest of my heart, a storm only those with open eyes and untainted souls can weather. At an exhibition of his sketches, Paco Rabanne once said to me, “I see three eyes in you. Open them!” Perhaps by sharing this book, I shall find a doorway I had not even known existed.
Not long ago, Sergey Slonimsky invited me to the Hermitage Theatre for his creative evening. As I sat in that hallowed space, my verses were transformed into romances. Words cannot capture what I felt in that moment. Once more, I saw how vast and varied the human soul is, and how differently we perceive the same truths – if only we are willing to see and hear.
A great soul once said, “By transforming your consciousness, you create your universe.” Dear reader, follow the call of your heart.
FOLLOW YOUR HEART OR THE DIARY OF FRANÇOISE DE CHAMBORD «THE TEAR OF SILENCE»…
“The sun rose quietly, painting the horizon with strokes of gold and lavender. I woke at 5 am, my heart eager to meet the day. The rain had left its mark on the earth, and the air was fresh with the scent of renewal. I pulled on my boots and walked under the soft drizzle, my diary tucked close to my chest. The world was silent, save for the gentle rhythm of my breath and the occasional rustle of leaves. Today, I will write about the connection between law and poetry – both seeking truth, both navigating the intricate maze of human emotion… And suddenly I thought… The trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.”
A DIARY… Within it dwells a thousand desires,
Love, separation, and sorrow entire.
Within it lie barriers and fervent pleas,
Strength and a prayer carried on the breeze.
I sought no madness, no trespass of the soul,
Only fragments of truth that make me whole.
Time slips away, its seconds obscure,
Masking joy and pain that endure.
Is poetry a herald or an end?
An empty vessel, or a truth to transcend?
Judge not life with a hardened gaze,
I sought to remind you of fleeting days.
Hear not the word alone, but the hidden key,
For beyond these lines lies you and me.
I love life—wildly, recklessly, and true!
Understand this: destiny waits for you.
Happiness is readiness, a path aligned,
For those who seek, and those who find.
THUS, IT MUST BE LOVE
“Morning broke gently, as if painted by a delicate hand. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the stillness, weaving a quiet intimacy that only dawn could bring. The pages of a well-loved book lay open before me, words whispering secrets of times long past. My pen hovered over the diary, caught between the present and the weight of emotions longing to be expressed”.
Thus, it must be love—a tender, fleeting flame,
A melody spun from the fabric of dreams.
Restless yet gentle, it lingers on the edge of thought,
Whispering truths where silence once held sway.
Like sunlight tracing shadows on a waking wall,
It is both fragile and eternal,
A promise unspoken, yet deeply known.
Feelings once forged in stone now yield to time’s caress,
And scattered leaves murmur stories long forgotten.
I, unaware of love’s deft hand,
Awoke to its rhythm in the quiet warmth of a morning cup—
An ache, a joy, a binding thread.
Let us inscribe it, I whispered to the dawn,
For love, like the first breath of day,
Must never fade from memory.
THE SILENT RIVER
"Each poem I write is a thread in the tapestry of my soul. These verses are not merely words; they are fragments of silence given form. I call my collection The Tear of Silence, for it is born from the quiet places within me – the moments between breath, the spaces between words. Let these pages speak where my voice cannot."
Oh, silent river, where do you flow?
Through valleys of light, through shadows below?
Do you carry the dreams of those who sleep,
Or secrets of hearts that ache and weep?
Your current winds through the forest deep,
Whispering truths I long to keep.
Oh, river of silence, take me too,
To lands unseen, where the heart is true.
INTUITION – A PROPHECY OR A POWER
“This morning, I wandered through the halls of the Hermitage. The paintings and sculptures seemed alive, whispering truths I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear. A thought clung to me: is intuition a blessing, or does it deceive us? I couldn’t let it rest…”
Is intuition a prophecy or a power,
That reason cloaks in the shadow of fear by night?
A sculptor, loud and angry,
Or a mocking, devilish, cunning spirit?
Perhaps the vision of distant horizons
Shields us from the pettiness of care?
This highest force of nature—
A coin with the double-headed eagle.
Boundless, with sorrows diminished,
To plunge through the depths and soar
Above the shooting stars that carry afar,
Mingling reason with feeling into one braid.
The kingdom of shadows bows its knees.
Veiled by fire, a mournful whistle,
Or the murmur of indecent persecution,
Or the creak of unsealed chains.
The power of intuition is corrupting,
Trying to justify doubt,
And in the whirl of lies, pleading and tearfully
Weaving balm for the soul.
Premonition, at times, lies buried
In the immeasurable riches of rumour,
Bloated, alluring with unease,
Iron shackles on the dreams.
Under the onslaught of heavy artillery,
The blind guard the blind with care.
Muted, shameful, and pitiful,
Day by day, we lose each moment.
Oh, if only that spark of revelation
Could join with calculated reason,
Flooding persecutions with calm wisdom
And transforming them into a crown of triumph!
To taste the game without praising the sinner,
To acknowledge the struggle without succumbing to it,
To know oneself and set a goal,
To believe in it wholly, without guile.
I LOVE YOU
«The stars were my companions tonight. I sat by the window, candlelight flickering beside me, and wrote about love. “True love,” I mused, “is like the stars – constant, guiding, yet untouchable. It lights our way, even in the darkest moments.”
I love you… yet no words on earth suffice,
To cage the boundless, to embody skies.
No thread of speech can weave the soul’s bright flame,
No art can mirror what no heart could name.
My love for you… a rose ablaze with fire,
Its petals strewn upon the path of dreams.
Its crimson burn has marked my lips entire—
To touch you once is to feel passion’s streams.
Life spins its threads amidst the starry spheres—
I found you, and it eclipsed all my fears.
May love’s eternal hearth, our steadfast light,
Be ever yours, the beacon through the night.
My love… a wave of tenderness and might,
It draws you close, yet dares to take your flight.
It speaks of worlds both perilous and sweet,
Where danger yields beneath our hearts’ fierce beat.
Angel or demon, flesh or spirit’s guise,
I do not know, but in your gaze truth lies.
What life was mine before your light broke through?
The seas are fiercer now, but they’re for you.
WHEN ONE EYE LOOKS AHEAD
“The night before my first university exam, doubts swirled in my mind. What if I failed? What if I lost myself in the pursuit of success? I picked up my pen and wrote to find clarity…”
When one eye looks ahead,
The other seeks the hidden thread.
I rush forward, doubts cast behind,
And the wind strikes sharp, unkind.
But if I lose my inner flame,
The path dissolves, a fleeting game.
Flowers bow in silent grief,
And all I sought becomes too brief.
Battling whims with futile tears,
I waste my strength through empty fears.
To understand is not to yield,
But to stand firm, with soul as shield.
Eyes, mirrors of a restless soul,
Veiled by storms that take their toll.
Inside, a tempest churns and sighs,
While peace, elusive, shuns the skies.
Flames rage, searing heart and mind,
Agonies leave no solace behind.
Doubts, fears, and fierce reproach ignite,
Until the soul reclaims its light.
A weakened spirit bends and breaks,
Steeped in the trials life undertakes.
Yet strength within, a steadfast guide,
Holds the body when all else has died.
“Vices are evil,” the wise declare,
Yet truth and virtue are rarely fair.
When judgment falls, swift and austere,
Even the proud bow low in fear.
But when thoughts rise, the chariot rolls,
To wage a war within the soul.
And only those who endure the test,
Will stand and say, “Hold fast! I’m blessed!”
NEARLY TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO
“Visiting Dostoevsky’s museum was a pilgrimage. As I stood by his desk, I felt the weight of his words, timeless and true. This poem is my tribute to him, to his city, and to his legacy…”
Nearly two hundred years ago,
The ink first etched its sacred flow,
Through tortured minds and silent halls,
It shaped the world within these walls.
A city swathed in smoke and stone,
Bore witness to the seeds he’d sown.
His quill revealed the aching cries,
The human soul, its lowly skies.
Through guilt’s embrace and maddened love,
He sought the heavens up above.
His seizures—gifts, both curse and grace,
Unveiled the frailty of our race.
The spire of Peter’s dreams stood tall,
While fog embraced the river’s call.
A dual city, shadowed, bright,
Where sin and virtue shared the night.
He walked the streets where horses trod,
Where stones bore weight beneath their nod.
And in their laboured, ceaseless tread,
He felt eternity’s hymn instead.
Dostoevsky’s eyes could see
The duality of humanity.
His legacy whispers, timeless and clear,
In Peter’s mist and Dostoevsky’s sphere.
I DROPPED MY SWORD IN BATTLE
“After a long day as a lawyer, exhaustion weighed on me like armour I couldn’t remove. It was as if I had fought a battle only to discover there was no victory. I poured my weariness into these words…”
I dropped my sword in battle’s haze,
A weary knight through endless days.
My armour fractured, my spirit worn,
A silent witness to wars I’ve borne.
I left my demons in the dust,
But still, they clawed, relentless, just.
No laurel crowns, no victor’s prize,
Just thorn-strewn paths beneath grey skies.
The cross I carried, sharp and cold,
Has bent my back, no strength to hold.
I sought the light in fleeting dreams,
But found instead life’s fractured streams.
Why does fate’s flame so fiercely burn,
Only to fade, its embers churn?
The ash takes root where passion lay,
And life, once bright, dissolves to grey.
My soul, unbound, begins to rave,
Immortal spirit, mortal slave.
The poison tempts, salvation calls,
Yet shadows stalk these hallowed halls.
A knight once stood within my chest,
Now he lies still, resigned to rest.
With trembling hands, I lift my plea:
Is peace found only in the sea?
The veins that pulse, the silvered strands,
The fleeting strength of faltering hands—
I search the skies, the earth, the sword,
And find no solace, save the Lord.
Through battlefields of endless night,
I march alone, devoid of light.
Yet hope, a whisper soft, delays—
Perhaps the dawn will bring my day.
I WHISPER TO YOU
“The evening had surrendered to the quiet embrace of twilight, the sky a soft canvas of fading hues. Trees stood as shadows against the horizon, their silhouettes etched in stillness. A silver thread of moonlight spilled across the waves, weaving the realms of reality and reverie. In that sacred stillness, words rose unbidden, fragile and eternal, carried on the breath of the night.”
I whisper to you:
“With you, it feels like the wind—
Unseen, unbound, yet endlessly kind.”
Your gaze, a flame both fierce and free,
Writes silent verses in eternity.
Did you forget? My heart still dreams,
Of echoes carried on love’s streams.
The night, once tangled, now unwinds,
In your light, my soul resigns.
I know the ache, the breaking soul,
How shadows linger, take their toll.
Yet love endures, with wings to fly,
Through tempest winds, toward your sky.
Your eyes, an ocean—boundless, deep,
A tide that holds, where secrets sleep.
Within their depths, I am whole,
A flower reborn, a mended soul.
Are you a dream? A fleeting glow?
A trace of stars, or truths I know?
Are you eternal, or just the rain—
A moment lost, then found again?
I cannot place where you abide,
In waking worlds or hearts that hide.
But you are mine, my steadfast grace,
A love no time or storm could erase.
THE NAME THAT STARTED IT ALL
“‘Mum’ – the first word I ever truly understood. It means love without limits, support without conditions, wisdom without arrogance, and joy so boundless it lights up the darkest days. A name that holds the universe of my heart.”
A TRIBUTE TO MY MUM
The day I opened my eyes to this earth,
It wasn’t the world I saw, but your worth.
With brown eyes deep as autumn’s hue,
A gaze so wise, forever true.
Your hands, so gentle, held my own,
Guiding me softly to the unknown.
Your hair, kissed by the sun’s embrace,
Framed the kindness etched on your face.
Through every tear, through every fear,
Your voice became the song I’d hear.
You held me close when the nights grew long,
Your love, my fortress, unwavering and strong.
You taught me courage, to stand up tall,
To rise with pride when the world would call.
You showed me beauty in the simplest things,
In whispered prayers and angel’s wings.
A clever mind, a heart so pure,
A friend, a guide, a love so sure.
You judged me fair, yet never cruel,
Your wisdom, Mum, my greatest school.
You gave your all, your dreams, your days,
So I might live in brighter ways.
You built a bridge where none could stand,
And led me safely, hand in hand.
And now, as life moves ever on,
Your lessons linger, your light not gone.
For even when the years grow wide,
You’re here, my Mum, my constant guide.
How little we knew, how blind we’d been,
To all the love you wove unseen.
Your laughter brightened endless skies,
Your happiness, the greatest prize.
So today I say, with every breath,
Your love transcends both time and death.
Mum, my anchor, my closest friend,
Your legacy of love will never end.
To Mum:
The truest word my heart ever knew, the most sacred bond my soul ever held. This is for you – my everything, my always, my forever.
I LOVE TO SPEAK AND LEAVE
“Words unspoken are like shadows at dusk—their absence lingers, haunting, shaping what might have been. After my first debate at law school, I found myself at odds with the words I left unspoken. There is something haunting about what remains unfinished. This is what I wrote that evening.”
I love to speak and then depart,
Leaving words to haunt the heart.
To flee, unbound by whispered dreams,
Deaf to life’s hasty schemes.
I love to leave my verse undone,
With dots where meaning is overrun.
Reflections linger—just behold,
The torment they weave, so bitter, so bold.
Beneath the gossamer veil of speech,
A soulful haven lies to reach.
Amid the throngs of fleeting forms,
Resides the eternal, untouched by storms.
