End of a time

"It all took the path of suspiciousness" the water lily said.
But none could hear its awarning.
Soon, all kind of murky feelings
climbed to their hearts
and sewed a veil of misreads
on their tongues and fingers
and a troupe of rabbits was released
so they could hunt them
as a symbol of love of the mankind.

From now on...

From now on arrows are a so on
weight to the head
straight to a rock forehead
which only feel is pain
which only hardness
are sweet young flowers
from sweet old ground
nobody thought such
a loneliness could come
all splited in dragonflies
arranged with such
incredible madness
none could ever predict
the plague of
suicidal instants
all covered in smoke
quitting the jaws
of existence
none

Since a row is taking an endless nap...

Since a row is taking an endless nap and

a kiss lasts what a dust particule blown in the wind,

loving is a dead end occurrence, an absurd biology of the body

a blind grammar of being.

And I’m not yet tired, my love, of spreading this you and me

like if I’d be spreading sycomore seeds on a so loved child’s hand

for them to grow inside his veins. 

Persephone

I left him behind and went back to the well of my own thirst, just like a wandering daffodil seeking what is beyond its own reflection. Oh, if the past could just not render its thorn once and again! With a mourning of dead roads I kiss the sun and make some flowers grow on the ground beneath my feet, then let my fingers dig down in dirt to the very heart of murk.

It is late.

The body is a root grounded on ashes.

But, you don't think that's a reason to give up the aspiration of being a dandelion.

(Bajo los párpados cerrados los ojos se rehúsan a las pérdidas).

"Meet me in beauty" you said to yourself, and you stopped seeking for answers.

("You don't need to be rootless to forgive nor to forget" you said to your feet and they started to linger on every step).

De la ceniza vino entonces el conjuro del movimiento:

escuridão a escuridão as árvores ficaram bosque,

no medo os pássaros cantaram clarãos de neve

e a través das sombras o tempo traçou galerias matinales.

Bajo el bosque, se sabe, corre un mar primitivo

cuyas aguas dan amparo a antiguas bestias huérfanas,

criaturas de carne suave y aspecto monstruoso:

colosales y ciegos ángeles dedicados 

a resguardar la fría intimidad de los pasajes que habitan.

Blow yourself in the wind,

o sangue acorda no ritmo da rua,

no capim das margens,

na mágoa do que não chega aos lábios pra ser beijado...

y en la arena de una playa ignorada 

un inmenso nautilus encalla como la lengua en las palabras.

One may sit on a couch and wait...

One may sit on a couch and wait. Sip a thought, maybe. Sleep on a wire, perhaps. To figure out a transition, to tear up a coincidence or a dove. Possibly. One may flip a coin and get surrounded by mystery and unborn thunders and letters. Not to give a fuck about anything or inconsolably weep one's lungs out. One may, perchance, to strike one's head on a golden fish memory and live in it like in a fishbowl for a moment, just the very moment of the travel of an origami crane to the trash can. One may just shut up one's fucking mouth and breathe, breathe like if it was a way to beg, like if it was the only religion that a man can prove to his many gods. One may sit on a couch and declare the wait one's intimate god.

There's a tiger sleeping in the back of my neck...

There's a tiger sleeping in the back of my neck. Sometimes it purrs; others it talks or walks in its sleep. There are moments when one can not know if it is dreaming or is dead: because one can not know anything for sure. I sleep its dream when it rains. It sleeps mine when I'm aware. We both know about each other's drift, we both know we live the spare instants of a sparrow.