You see them pass by, sojourners of your life
Some stop to dazzle your train, fogging the horizon of its trails,
Others share with you their path to construe visions alike
Yet just a few will reflect the glimmer of your eyes.
Despite human reasoning to expect so that you can give
You keep yourself naïve and share without prerequisites
One smile of solace, two for care, three: for the deepest feeling
You lose too much so that you win towards the dawn of dreams.
But here it comes, as if from an outdated track, the one changing all sounds
Replete with déjà vu and tempting mysteries alike
You dance away , eyes closed on an open soul, grasping it to the core
You strum and drum with all you hold the purpose of its melodies.
Yet, was it him reflecting you, or rather you reflecting him?
When your heart speaks its sways to him, is that a weakness or a virtue?
On the new track, you blithely steer an ad-hominem reasoning
You live one smile alone, amid the same collage of love, weaving destinies.
One day
I took a road narrow and long,
with cracking beams of wood hurting my feet, tiring out patient horizons
aiming for old and new in the same truth;
it searched for you and couldn’t shape you
until long time had walked by my side
for me to realize
that I was never alone
and you were with me after and before,
giving me strength with your glow,
carrying my burden secretly
everytime I found serenity,
leaving with me a precious gift to wear for eternity –
your memory.
There he goes, wild and kind
Running free on open fields
His own passion to grasp
To the end of significances and back
At confines to stand out
Eyes to bewilder, feelings to wake up
In pain or broad grins
Like a squire of love, flaunting a blade of two sides.
There is something exotic to foresee
Maybe in the stout figure with black eyes
Surely in the contagious freedom out of a continent’s mark
In the life of a Pi, with no rules but the sky.
I wonder if you fancied your stars
In times of hated deserts with wolves to dance around
And if, among your prances, you saved for them true kisses
Like cinema paradise.
For I was afraid to ride
When I approached your mane of fire
And showed you innocence entangled in courage
With only the skill of confidence as knowledge;
You gaze at me out of your heartbeats’ stampede
Roaring like lions in fierce defeats
Hungry for more in your sweetest fights
You pause and whisper: “Love me, start now.”
Poetry is beautiful
A debonair flaneur veiling feelings
While mirroring them boldly –
Silent words coming to life, always differently
At the end of their meaning
Grasped by stranger eyes
Who label them with own experiences.
Poetry is music as a trope
Putting emotions in the notes
Forgotten by the stave in its theory
And then it fashions itself to acclaim distorted harmonies
Displaying a hot attire with elegance
Seen as unique for its tailored creativity
With paramount details without accessories.
Before such exquisiteness, wordy prances are not needed
Nor tunes of pastiche melodies
For one can find the definition of your being
And feel your spirit imprinted-
Words begetting passion within
Music pacing breathing
You are poetry. You are beautiful.
Somewhere, where space regains its trace
Where realities and fantasies intertwine
And whys turn into wows
There reigns an orchid in full bloom
At the windowsill of life.
She’s white and begets tender sprouts
Balming the air with flavours of a true kind
Like a loyal soldier in armour of trust
Keeping a love safe from the outer harm
With the seed of care germinated inside.
Her utmost view is a wooden bed of silence
Where her perfume wraps his shape in reverberating hues
Promising warmth to emanate
Whenever feelings are embraced
By meanings immersed in their plain eloquence.
And when the day falls for the night stars
The frail white turns into blush
For there, a girl pampers a boy in tears
To purify in values reality’s charred marks
To dry his eyes with her own sun.
Above fading vistas where clocks lose their flair
Time constantly rewinds its antiquated track
To a forwarded point of the same crystalline beliefs
Where an orchid rests her fantasies upon a silken bed
Giving her blossom’s breath to scent the universe.
Outside the rain pours down with memories
within, where all the tears dried out;
his kiss shelters the best corner of her feelings,
where she keeps the flow of its imprint,
the essence running through her veins,
becoming one with the pulses of her breathing;
yet she remembers he was different
when her eyes first gazed at him
and he was playing the card of their chance to win
something they never defined
for silence spoke to them recurrently–
she, enthusiasm of heart,
he, the soother of the nights,
together, even when afar,
to prove in care what is closest to a smile,
losing track of moments
when they forgot to measure the size
of the room where habits and newness mixed up
and love took over the corner of confidence;
there she awaits him,
keeping his faith in her hand
like an unused perfume
she doesn’t want it to evaporate
but rather herald with it the theme of spring
in the landscape of their significance,
where hope is dancing on the ceiling
and art has put its sisters to work,
decorating the walls
with little things – his favourites
and her deep gestures of beauty.
Her eyes frame the rain again
which shivers on the pane of purity,
abundantly bleeding with past before her senses,
which she won’t let infiltrate
within the tenderness she keeps for him,
close to the embers and a tea
she prepared late in the night,
for his return
so that it makes a dawn out of her life,
or simply win over the drops outside,
like a magician of her happiness
who draws a rainbow on the same spot,
where the rain had cried and longed each time
for him to come back.
At the well of destiny
the impostor of visions met the conceiver of beliefs
and shook hands
for the same length of their intent:
to gain volume on their glass of sand
and have patience mould some stars in clay
for the girl with almond eyes they framed,
there, in the place where she came
her dreams to perpetuate
with only a big heart and one cent.
Like the north and south of the same eagerness,
the wordsmiths of phrases conjuring nothingness
tossed sparks of promises around her faith
to feed themselves with her innocence,
to drink a rare drop of blue
under a sky witnessing fallacious virtues.
The first was shrewd of shows and old of means,
brandishing techniques of paramount reveries,
selling fame and wishes
in exchange for sips of blood his victims
would bestow to such mesmerist,
learning a melody of subliminal lyrics,
which his black eyes were preaching
with the smile of his past victories.
The other one, too young,
was running for fresh trust
to gain experience and be grand
just like his rival nearby,
except that he wouldn’t steal hearts,
but let butterflies without wings fly
or endorse summers deprived of sun.
The well of yore could see it all,
beyond the murmurs of its revolt
and, as the wisest of them all,
it welcomed the coin
and listened to the girl’s inner voice,
moved by her beauty to perceive,
with undulations shivering for her safety,
in a space where time was just skimming through values;
it gently reflected her face
from the deepness of its knowledge,
answering her who to believe in,
what strength and legacy to better keep
or where to search
when cosmoses would dissipate in mist.
As she laid upon its marble steps,
staircase of symbols in art shapes,
tired of thoughts, refilled with love,
the girl said goodbye to both courtesans
for a better reach of her horizons,
for a deeper purpose of her core
and watched her coin fall
in the piths of her own hope
where it was cherished like gold,
among the old and young and bold –
reminiscences of peregrines,
who passed by wisdom’s ponderings
at least once a lifetime in that spot of bounty.
No one could ever grasp
that the well was hiding the registrar of lives
where, coin by coin, all entries were kept
like strings of fate to evaluate,
to give worth or remove glow
to sighs and lies of humankind
for the sake of one word alone,
named the secret of the world,
kept in potions of bliss only for those
who proved themselves right over the wrong -
a matter of strength and lenience
at the well of happiness.
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