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POEMS -
I wish I dwelt
on a note
“take me, quick!”
sings out its sound.
I stretch out
my hands,
muscles
taut, ruddy-faced.
I run after
bubbles, they disappear.
Astonished eyes
and palms still closed, empty.
I dreamed last
night
I ran after
existence, arms out-stretched, with hands and
feet.
I ran, exhausted,
sweat on my skin
and salt on my
lips… I was at a hair’s breadth from grabbing
hold when…
I was seized by
life itself.
I was pursued by
the very thing that I was pursuing.
A warder
imprisoned.
A fisherman in
the net.
I wish I dwelt on
a note
but I know that
to flee from the flight
we can simply…
STOP.
Don’t think of
yourself,
let yourself be
carried by my fingers,
like a kite in
the hands of the wind.
You can be sure
that I can take
you up to your skies.
Help the man who
is forced by the storm
to take refuge in
the lifeboats of murderous glances,
whose cold words
are cries for help.
Take me with you,
when you embrace
the wounds of the suicidal.
Drive your sails
towards the
barren hearts and beyond, and further again,
without asking
anything for your tired body.
Weary, you will
sit alone,
Then will I
appear, my love,
and nothing
will ever again
separate us.
I’M A SHOOTING STAR
I’m a shooting
star from another universe,
that passed by
your planet many centuries ago.
I remember
the gaze that
tied to my bright trail,
a wish that I
still bring along.
Now I ask you:
where are the
dreams, the hopes,
the ardent
glances
of those who went
before?
Are we comets
their only trace
in our eternal
dance among the stars?
Man is born with
the instinctive desire to be loved.
If he knew where
to seek such love, how much less he would
suffer!
Hence can he find
love
for others
only when he has
found the former.
Until that time,
anything called
“love”,
anything hidden
behind a repetitious “I love you”
is no more
than a mistake.
Tell me why I
can’t feel the contact of another’s body on my
own.
Tell me what
hides behind the fake laceration that I use to
get to sleep.
Tell me why I no
longer see colours, no longer smell scents, no
longer hear voices,
and everything
tastes the same.
Tell me why, when
I enter my afflicted imagination,
I become no more
than a hunter of false securities and vain
hopes.
Tell me what
these hands in pockets are, and this upright
back,
This sombre face
and my interest in silence.
Explain to me
this desire to feel with my hands and eyes
and this
unquenched thirst and these words that fail to
describe me
and seem to come
from someone else.
Explain to me
those moments of unaccountable tenderness that
drive me
to hold a
stranger’s hand.
Tell me, whose is
this face, these hands, these feet, these legs,
and my bones and
my breath.
Tell me who or
what I am to You, a little clue to help me find
my way back Home.
Tell me what You
see in this body, and what you breathe from this
skin,
so that I, too,
can have a better idea
of this constant
changing that continues to hide me
among the
thousand mirrors of my surmises.
I would like to
know where the great poets wrote,
and rediscover
myself in that place.
I would like to
know the feeling that fills the illuminated
when they are
inspired
to discover the
twilight.
I would like in
the frosty winter to warm myself
with lovers' fire.
I close my eyes
and…
discover that I’m
looking at Heaven.
Speak or be
silent,
what’s the
difference when your words say so little
and your silences
yell endless tirades?
The power of
control that we believe we have under control.
But if only we
knew how to be silent!
But if only we
knew how to speak!
Then saying or
not saying would not be the same.
To die a slave to
dark thoughts,
in the perverse
and murderous night.
To die alone with
the Lord, who lights
gleams of
certainty
like candles.
One day we’ll be
like slaves
who, shaking off
their fetters,
raise their heads
to the Heavens.
Walking
alone amidst the crowded streets
of a country town.
Raising my head toward the Heavens like a vulture
to show my smile to God.
There you will find yourselves etched.
"Wanted: Sincere Friendship"
Once I met a
poet. Embracing him I said,
“Brother! I’m a
poet too! Destiny has brought us here
to sing together
the wonders of the universe,
that men may gasp
in awe!”
But I noticed a
strange light in his eyes, and his body
in my arms was
stiff and cold
and distant.
He answered “I
have no brothers,
for I was born of
the sun and the moon.
I have no
friends,
for only silence
can caress my soul.
I have no
companion but solitude,
no lovers, no
confidants.
My art is born of
sorrow.
And my art is
poetry”.
Still I held him,
and could not let him go.
How could I
desert the heart of a man
who was seeking some kind
of shelter
beneath the
modest eaves of a poem?
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