Fictitious Line

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Fictitious line


Smokes

of cigarettes

and mugs

full of coffee,

next

to the fictitious line

where the eddy

of words

leans against

and nods,

wounded,

to my silence.



Ideals


Snow-covered mountains,

ancient monuments,

a north wind that nods to us,

a thought that flows,

images imbued

with hymns of history,

words on signs

with ideals of geometry.



Rules and visions


Life counts

the rules;

the sunset, their exceptions.

Rain drinks up

the centuries;

spring, our dreams.

The eagle sees

the sunrays

and youth, the visions.



Illusions


Noiseless wrinkles

on our forehead

the frontiers of history,

shed oblique glances

at Homer's verses.

Illusions

full of guilt

redeem

wounded whispers

that became echoes

in lighted caves

of the fools and the innocent.



The end


The savour of fruits

still remains

in my mouth,

but the bitterness of words

demolishes the clouds

and wrings the snow

counting the pebbles.

But you never told me

why you deceived me,

why with pain

and injustice did you desire

to say that the end

always in tears

is cast to flames.



What I ask


A ball of threads

my prayers

whisper

frightened.

Foolish "I"s

are choked

without you ever

knowing

what I ask.



The "don'ts" and "zeros"


The night

that strangled

the endless moments

I had wished

to live,

passed by

without my lighting up

the candle

I had longed

to warm up

all the "don'ts" and " zeros".



Denials


A roar of cars

seals the dawn

with short-cut answers,

with unyielding denials

that are repeated

explicitly

every sunset.



One-word garments


Waves of circumflexes

storms of adverbs,

windmills of verbs,

shells of signs of ellipsis,

on the island of poems

of soul,

of mind,

of thought,

one-word garments

you wear

to endure!



Ashes


The fireplace

was eager

to put a fullstop,

in the sentence

where the road

of my dreams

stuck

upon the word of happiness

with sparkles

of wet logs

I collected

from the inside of me

that I dared

to turn to ashes.



Maybe


The cloud struggled

against the sand

underneath the rain

of "no" and "yes",

forcefully treading

on the rationale

that obeys

the impasse of "maybe".



Limits


Fragments of glasses

in the empty room

of the inarticulate whispers,

bleed

our limits,

fill

with sores

the caress of our soul.

Last Updated on Thursday, 31 March 2011 20:07

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