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Posts Tagged ‘soul’

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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Met an old potter today after crossing the forest;
Old enough to lift the clay that was seeing him
For a long time, with water turned vapour now
And holding still to the air that touched it long ago.
And he greets me saying ‘here comes the mad man,
Here comes the one who couldn’t water the clay’.

Only the heart knows the dream it lives and loves,
Amid springs and falls that the river breathes.
Such emptied souls that multiply more emptiness
Such unflinching evenings and darkness around.
The potter, the wheel, the clay and the aged art
All will now shape this soul for sure salvation.

The decadence of those smiles will lure the obscure;
And the mad man will walk to find again the same clay.

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Petals of roses, petals of crimson hues so ancient
Laid now on these solemn words of this world.
Was I in a dream, or was I well treading through
The feathers and tossed among the wings of angels?
There are now stones thrown on paltry sculptures
And fear reaming through the veins of that victory.
What was the dream? What was the dream?
Shouted the old man on the same crossroad.
If we can pause, if we can breathe the same air
we started our journey, and touch of the breeze.

We fake to whom if not the soul, to gather hope
To face the truth of that dream we love so much.
Our journey can’t be an epitaph over that stone
If not the honest air among the moonlit nights.
Settle O’ soul, there’s so much peace in passion;
There’s the possibility of life when we are gone.
I will write again, take hues from those petals
And hymn though the marble into the sculpture.

Hope is in those eyes that surround us all through.
We will rise again to peace and fall again in love.

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Inked in Love

Sometimes our breath is the greatest song,
That ears will not hear, but the heart will lend.
Drops of our tear and smiles will more belong
To the dreams of life cast now on a stones end.
Lips smearing among the seduced air of this land
I often revoked and retired from thoughts of you.
But I stand an inch taller, an acre more green
Every time someone says it’s love and it’s true.

I know the nights, I live that dream, and I still play
The same flute among the cold wind and still play
To cross the clouds in the dark to say I love you!
Let peace find you and time leave you alone in grey
To mould into apparitions of our most innocent day
And night filled with stars say with smile, I love you.

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What amateur beats in the heart of this holy fire?
Only feathers burn beleaguered in the prism of time.
The wind that shines with this shivering soul
Flies far to those distant memories and rhyme,
Restless, reared wretches of the ruptured goal.

What ink does this vein blow with so much hatred?
So much in itself, so much making moments mourn.

The Swans now sail among the whiteness of the moon,
Among the coldness of the calm uncounted morning.
What blindness has these generations brought so soon?
Our soul doesn’t hold the wealth we gathered in living.
There is this breath that goes so deep, so much making
The vision blurred and ears yearning to true love’s tune.

We are the immortals, only we know when we leave.
We are the smiles we see, we are all that we give.

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The Moment

To be born is a mirror of the possibility to be reborn.
We conquer not cadence, but the silence of our soul
With unheard attempts of love among sails now so torn;
What legend shall these oaks sing, what wood to burn?
Among intrepid torrents of desolate wind there’s madness
Of the soul, there is passion in every passing vision.

We are the story we tell, we are the music we play;
We are not idols of cold stone, but a dream of clay
In every child’s soft hands who will be born again
Among journeying times, through the heat and rain.
We will meet again and will talk those moments lived;
The blue sky, green fields and the dreams we believed.

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What battle does this baffled baton lead
In these desolate hours for decrepit sailors’ oars?
The mutiny in a moment tests the greed
Of ours, of legends we know who still in course
Tussle their thirsty swords with ire indeed.
Let peace not preach any more, let the course
Break every intellect, to find the soul’s feed.
Live on hereafter with the same love and light,
Till our wings flutter and decide its true flight.

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