Diana Dolea is a writer with Romanian heritage based in Spain. She pens, edits, and curates literary content in both Spanish and English.

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Writing demands presence and, admittedly, an immense faith. I kneel and bow myself as my own vision arises. That is to say, I build altars out of words. What a rather odd sight, one would think.Such so-called devotion embraced my spirit at an early age. I vividly recall my beginnings in Spain, an unfamiliar land where I felt utterly adrift. If writing had not emerged as my crucial anchor during that disorienting chapter, I doubt I would have found such steadiness amidst that sea of upheaval. Therefore literary creation was my lifeline in a foreign country. Even now!Cannot stop thinking about the sacred scriptures. I definitely choose a word like a prayer. My writing desk is my sanctuary and my soul is a somehow relic. I am rooted! The more paragraphs are conjured up by my spirit, the more rooted I become.For me, writing is much more than a pastime. The act of putting words onto paper offers a connection to something larger than myself. All in all, I advocate writing for the health of my human heart —to speak the truth, I reinvent myself through words! Beloved words!

📖 My poem, Unwilling to Leave, included in let her old spirit awaken…!. This collection of poems contains the blossoming emotions felt by an apprentice poet who seeks to belong to the wild garden of his own heart. Nostalgia mingles with the promise of a new beginning.

Here you are —my dear beloved soul,
Taking happy flights over your reality.
You are meeting flowery slopes
And wild bees are culling scents.O solitude! Your pleasant lair!
An adored voice is coming to you.
Are you hearing, my dearest?
So many pulses are awakening
And a new poem is speaking to you.O, but you are unwilling to leave.
We both know the biggest truth:
Your spirit is contending a dream.
Here and there — earth and heaven;
We are fond of dwelling a realm
In which goblins and fairies appear.Look! A foxglove bell is laughing!
Is that flower your kindred spirit?
Sure! If you must with birds’ dwell
You will not depart from the sky!
Silently you sit on a wobbly branch
To rhyme your inning singing.O, you are wide awake now
Because of the delighted fancy:
This is your highest bliss!
I miss you, my beautiful soul.I feel like I am hearing your voice
So I am waiting for your wings
To fly over my burning gaze
As I write about your reveries.

📖 Stillness Over Commotion, on Scrittura.

Once, there was a little soul whose boundless inner worlds hovered over her longing heart. The old windows seemed to beckon her innocent spirit, for when the child brought forth an idea of her very own, a terrible draft lulled her senses.She knew algorithms, divinely set, were flawless. Hence she wondered, from her unrecognizable space —(silence) should she continue delving into her own depths?Day after day, her eyes flickered on and off, on and off… A deep stupor rendered her insensible. Not even the steady warmth of a little lamp, which something kept alight, managed to evoke any lively emotion. Yet, one time, the flame, so carefully shielded, pressed against its transparent confines —oh, the longing was so forceful that nothing could hold it back!Yes! She found her way out!The timid soul learned how to rest in a nest.Yes! She chose stillness over commotion and so she heeded her own voice, not anyone else’s.In the end, she avoided slipping through her life (a bird’s song whispers in her ear now, as her heart opens to enchanting visions).

📖 Carta a Yannis Ritsos, en Medium.

mi muy querido poeta, en esta mañana algo extraña asciendo sobre las alas de una golondrina y, alma a alma, memorizo los aromas de las flores en el cielo. por tu parte, recitas junto al cántico de las cigarras, mas yo no consigo hacerme con el lenguaje de los insectos, siquiera con el de los pájaros. oh, las horas son tan gigantes sobre mis sueños y, también, sobre los tuyos. son tantas las estrellas, tantos los poemas… una canción, buscas conforme una estrella irrumpe —¿cuál es aquella que es olvidada cuando nuestra existencia desadormece? concibo. tra la la. quiero salir de mi casa, jugar con la tierra, rozar los tallos, y avistar entre las hojas. la arquitectura de mis huesos me lleva a construir un rezo dictado a mi alma. recoges un rayo de luz —ahora tu forma es traslúcida; ¿y la mía? cuando leo tus versos se me hace oír el latido del corazón (de un ángel). todo baila en la luz. dices. ¿qué nos invoca? ¿qué nos hace amar este momento? no lo sé, yo tan solo subrayo estas páginas. ¿procuras tú despertar del eterno letargo? no, yo pretendo podar las pestañas de mis ojos. deseo ver sin filtros. también crecer para espiar por encima de las copas de los árboles. tan amado poeta, ¡me miras y sonríes! mi espíritu te conmueve porque me reconoce amando tus líneas: contemplas cómo regreso a ellas. los lunares que contienen mi piel se desploman y caminan ahora sobre las letras —convierten la L en U. escribes Luz y yo leo Uuz. ¿es uuz toda mi luz? oh, estoy desvariando. pero acaso no todas las almas acaban sucumbiendo ante un asombro. tú, apreciado poeta, eres mi mayor deslumbramiento.

📖 The Rooted Gaze, on Weeds & Wildflowers.

The world, they say, lies beyond our sight,
A whispered truth from fading light.
Yet here I stand, a tiny, rooted soul,
Upon this patch of earth, I find my whole.
From my small vantage, almost unseen,
I glimpse the silent jasmine, hushed and green,
And hear the ancient tree’s profound lament,
Whose countless branches o’er my sisters leant.
At times, the restless birds with graceful tread,
Drag tiny stones where tiny steps have led.
Few other tales my memory can hold.But dawn today a different story unfolds;
The long-lost gaze, now fixed on my own space —
A grey-eyed girl, upon the cold stone place,
Sits, while ants, in a warm embrace,
Meander softly on her tender skin.
The quiet depths I find her eyes within,
Awaken doubts: Do I truly exist?
Or does her vision pierce what I may persist?As if my tremor touched her gentle art,
She leans, and warmth of voice unveils her heart.
She seeks my name. I murmur ‘Violet, born
Out of a dream’ — a sound in tongues now sadly torn;
No common speech, no bridge to make her hear.Then, soft and light, her hands draw ever near,
To touch my petals, steeped in purple hue.
A sigh, a breath, a silent, tender dew,
As slowly, slowly, towards my stem she glides.
She asks what path this holding force provides;
I tell her then, though words divide our plight.My brief tale told, a breathless, swift delight,
A sudden rupture, space begins to grow.
Just as I thought new words would surely flow,
She rises, breaking. Or so it seems to me,
Possessed by frenzy, wild and suddenly.
She spins and turns, in labyrinth unseen,
As if no exit, nowhere to convene.Then, to herself, a gateway opens wide.
A hush descends, then, with no thought to hide,
She flings herself upon the waiting ground,
Gathers the earth, and scatters it around.
And then, from arms, small limbs begin to gleam;
Time fades away, an unremembered dream,
As green leaves cloak her, shrinking, fading low,
To meet my petals, just where my colors glow.She breathes! A breath, profound and deeply true,
And so I stir the garden’s quiet dew.
My voice, a whisper heard by some alone,
Shakes through the air, a softly whispered moan.
The bees that danced upon the blooms before,
Now flock to me, and birds, and butterflies soar.
Near plants incline, while distant branches reach.
The grey-eyed girl, now rooted, finds her speech.The audience nods —
This is the truth that holds us now!
They shout,
They sing,
They cheer and bow,
The reality is within —
She whispers,
[ from her earth-bound skin.