Prayers in a summer night

How long can I walk to hide the shadow?

Where I move it moves, when I sit idle it creeps,

To walk, to move, to journey the subtle trail.

I dreamt of the muses and the years grow

All that can live forever and sweeps

The age old paradoxes of life and death.

 

What is not dreamt ever is achieved.

We will grow together and together shall live

In the citadels of well-lit intellect.

Where to begin and what to thrive,

All hymns sing and all perceived.

In tribulations we will find our faith.

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An encounter with all that is lost

These foliage of the past have bragged
And are now among the repercussions
Of grandeur undefined, untouched.
The king plays the flute and a soldier
Sings the paradise, the victory attained.
The sword lies unheard and the shield rusts;
No war can heal, no talk can solace.

The symphony around the swans,
The lush green paddy fields and
The floating of a satin from the castle;
All run in these dreamy veins.
On a sepulcher now all will rest
And announce the romance of time.

The satin now is a distant dream,
With the shepherd lying unheard.
What will heal are the old fathered herbs
For the stones still bleed and battle cry.
An Oedipus here and a Homer there;
I see all the muses in this old satin.

What breed will time grow?
What tides will rise under the moon?
Let me anchor these feelings;
You will sing them in solitude soon
And long to meet someone and show.

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On having a dialogue in the dilemma

There is a juggler in the streets of sadness,
With a bag full of mundane surprises.
With this arid melancholy resounding,
Will this world come into play and sing?

A clown claps with tattered cloth,
With dry hay here and there.
On Rustic and mediocre genre
This race of owls fit with no vision
That the hatched egg loathe.

The audacity to chirp and fly to the blue,
will be the most childish passion to grow.
The last romantics died and few
Near the lake never bred strains or crow.
There is no wilderness far, it’s in here.
People living together but with fear.

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Sisters of Mount Helicon

In the subway I saw Erato lying.

Her yellow and orange tattered gown,

Now inherited the souls of brown.

Erato! The muse who inspired Love;

How can you be dead and your rose dying?

Daughter of Zeus, mother of a thousand tales,

You have lived for ages and strove

 To join this mad band of gales?

 

For long I stood amazed in the burrow;

A soul filled with solitude and sorrow.

The stained wall, may be never painted,

Showed apparitions of flying muses fainted.  

The green and blue clouds are not seen,

For long they have left Mount Helicon.

 

Oh! Homer, and men and women

Who have seen these muses alive?

Tell me what they talked and gain

A life full of love as for ages will thrive.

 

There arose a white apparition,

With soft pink satin around. 

A spirit so free and unbound

From the frivolities of aberration.

 

Is this the Phoenician story of my Love

Or the beautiful and eternal journey

Of the Sisters of Mount Helicon?

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The Oak of Wisdom

In these hours of colossal ruins,

When nothing almost heals or whispers;

I welcome all men and women and their kins,

To live and let live and then disperse.

 

What breed will all salmons grow

with an oiled ocean and spilled death?

A more green earth, a passage so slow;

Let us live those generations of faith.

 

The tranquil waves and ripples so smart,

Let all gather no moss but a possibility.

Our books have spoiled the beating heart,

And parentage is looked upon with agility.

Where reasons die and rescue ashamed

The wreckage of glory and memoir spread.

 

On an unending journey will we march

Or settle down for a civilization profound?

Let us all promise once again before the Ides,

We will face together the changing tides.

Under the Oak let’s have our pledge now

To be wise and loving as we grow.

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From an abandoned seaside

From an abandoned seaside

The ringing bells and the singing shells
I gift you o blessed friend of mine.
There is enough boredom in these citadels;
Where life doesn’t live nor die.
These plastic smiles and thirsty mackerels
Around they live and leave others to die.
What if this cycle is broken?
 
The several lives that we have lived,
The several deaths we have died.
The several things we lost in the wild
And the few good wishes we filed.
Will all these come into play?
 
I can still see you on the mad sepulcher
waiting for me, with a dead plant beside.
To lit your destined dream and desire,
May I call upon you on the seaside?

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