Clockwise Order

Working hard with my heart
denouncing its transitory tick-tock,
decorating it with artificial flowers,
keeping the hope linked to its fibers,
stopping the fancy arrhythmia,
postponing the boredom infarct.

While luckily
I wasn’t a magician.

.

Seasons

„And mom, stones were changing
into butterflies, learning how to fly.”
The child was smiling,
tears gathering in beehives
became only dewdrops.

This time I was walking along
like a shadow,
counting leaves into rivers,
returning whispers to silence,
haunted by brown and dry colors,
with my eyes moist like tender stars rising
in the summer evenings,
with my heartbeat unleashing
the cold springs waterfalls
from bygone days.

Worries

I am extracting with effort
from the memory season
autumnal tears
cold and warm.

What’s the use, said you,
to cry in so many colors
painting my windows
with the subjective version
of your story ?
And besides this, you can see
how difficult it is to cry them
because barely coming to life
they become stony and fall down.

Therefore I am worried
that my windows will break
and the cold will get inside…
over both of us.

The World Within

Crickets are now silent.
The wind breaks down
too high and frail grass blades.
Even the brook got tired
knocking on boulders.

Everything that was once a song
is now a statue,
water’s useless rumble
hinders the invasion of other sound studs.

My thoughts grow in waves
and freeze into stones,
holding and understanding
the entire world.

Precaution

In this dimming light,
beside myself and incomplete,
I don’t know if I’ll ever be
an awning made of clouds
or a sunbeam locked in stone.

But as long as the horizon
will keep me above
I shall stay away from whirlpools
which can engulf thirstily
my heavenly dewdrop.

Hoping I won’t lose my halo
suspended over waters.
.
.

http://www.aaronartprints.org/delaroche-theyoungmartyr.php