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Posts Tagged ‘literature’

If time was to settle or pause among the pristine powers,
A flute is enough to play and save through the breathing rocks.
What is madness, if can’t converse with the countable stars?
What air is of profit if doesn’t hold the soul that death mocks?

The treasure of our times will be those smiles that we record.
The pursuit of our passion if not inspire, then to what respite?
Awake! Here it stands stronger than we know anything else.
Listen! To This voice of yours that echoes love our heart tells.

Sometimes, it’s among those tired leaves where love wrote.
Sometimes, it’s among a thousand waves where soul floats.
What profit is our rhyme here, if not toss our ego for light.
A step, a breath, a story that awaits you on the bed this night.

Awake! Yet again, you will starve and feed, drink the thirst.
But Oh, never give up on those dreams that live in your heart.

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On the same crossroads where we met last,
I still yearn to see you come again, alone.
Let there be no humans, no old statues cast,
No dark doors, no vivid fates, just love alone.
These lives that we lived are lost like wars.

The Beatrice I know has now immortal wings,
And has grown more love than ever before.
Now nothing stops the marriage of our souls.
The Florence I loved long is now denied,
As trusted faces are jaunted in jealous eyes,
And fleeting souls lead and leave past buried.

I am here to sing and write for love so dear;
But cruel intentions consume cold intellect
That I believe was to receive trusted praise.
In desire there is the Beatrice I love again,
For no promise I can see without embrace.

I have kinsmen at home who are far now, 
With unknown fates and dwindling days.
I have my first books and an ancient ink pot
Wandering through the window for return
Of me, my verse filled in heart like an urn.
But I will not redeem, nor will listen to past.
I am a man and like my race shall move on.
This is not fate but an exile cast on my soul.

There are patrons now for me to demolish,
Enough grudge on the verse I wrote in rein,
And Satan that I saw through the homes lost.
There is still love that runs in my aged vein.

The statue of four seasons stands now,
Where we first promised to live and love.
There are grapes and graves lying beside
Like the mockery of our human dreams.

After ages we will be born and meet again,
May not be in Florence but in a far away land,
Where fate will settle down like the sea sand
And frozen dreams will live and love again.

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