When we meet again

Separated at the séance, surrendered to sermons
With bells around not ringing but like demons
Hanging from the black dark roof, among webs
Of desire so cruel to stand through the ribs.
There will be dreams that will now relinquish
In the real and rude words of this world.

This battle will finish the carcass of those cared,
This battle will not be of bodies but boldness
Unbound by fear of tradition and the trivial,
Among gloomy gusts of gentle memories.

This heart will not fail nor fear for future;
There is enough I had gathered, enough
To leave behind as each step now breathes.
There will be time that will cure all wounds
Of this world, of this life and will grow
To discover the green pasture of hope.
Stars will now see, storms will now seal;
We will meet again beyond desire and flow.

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Isle of Freedom

A thousand lamps floating on water
Like pearls scattered on black drape
With mist wrapped to gift someone
Enough hope to flee for freedom.
Some burn all night, some defy later;
The lamps are like our hearts filled
With memories of the past that moan
And hope to reach the mystery dome.

Beauty beats its wings over this calm
Cuddling water with darkness all around,
To fly beyond the mundane desire
And reach the isle of freedom profound.
I have but apparitions of this unseen isle
And tales that lure to make this flight
And meet those flattering wings around.

There are bushes of yellow and green,
Soft and moist soil to move gentle desire.
There are wings all around beating clean,
Colossal fervors to amuse immortal fire.
Under the oak I loved will sit for awhile
And draw from around to make my home.
I will tread someday among these birds
And meet life on this isle of freedom.

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Migrants of the Moon

The air from the weed, is hustling down
In desolate dusk of an unknown countryside
Like a malady muzzled all across.
Who lives the nest except for food?
Now that I am far from my country land
With handful of coins and cerise remains,
Sometimes dream of those streets of joy,
Those calls of my people and voices so grand. 

I came here for setting my tale, and earn
Enough to see my old dreams again.
Now enough! Enough of this old yearn.
This land is not mine with cold hearts
Around like dead stones and dark odes.
These faces that I see are not mine,
Nor from the known crowd I ever loved.

The wanderer I will die down with time,
Leaving impressions of solitude self drawn.
The denouement will again inspire some
And not allow Satan bait on dreams grown.
Let this world be a home again for all,
And not treat us like migrants of the moon.

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