Today the rains came, without any warning
I watched droplets forming, pooling on the ground
the trees dissolving into palest fog
into the quiet of this forest, void of birds
traveling off to some secret world
perhaps to some cavernous mountain hollow
with glorious wings, I dream to follow
through the darkened woods, hidden by ferns
through harrowing clouds to be one with birds
with gorgeous feathers, downy warm
among the flickers, pheasant and crow
to be an evening silhouette in the alpenglow
a skylark winging in a painted sky.

It is summer and soon the Perseid showers
I have gone from my desert home
I wander far from crowded towns
my feet in grassy, bee clover
deep summer, all daisy flowered
green leaves, wild blackberries
await the August sun fire.

Here amid the slowing of mars retrograde
of my love returning home too late
no long goodbye, only the weight
I watch oceans of seaweed sway
at night the phosphorescence
the lonesome of sea stars trailing.

The angels are falling under the weight of the clouds
helplessly fighting with a world
where good hearts are hiding
frightened by the malice around.

The angels are falling,
their wings are dissolving
under the tempest coming
from clouds of hatred and darkness.
Their bodies with the light of stars are dying,
their dreams turning to dust
swept by monsters
under the rugs we're stepping on
saying that everything is fine,
turning our heads,
pretending we're not seeing
that the angels are falling
and the monsters are cleaning the roads
to an existence
without dreams
without purity.

The sound of guns covering the voices
of the innocent children we used to be
blindly we're walking
lying to ourselves
that everything it's gonna be alright.

The angels are falling
and with their tears
we're drowning
in a sea of blood,
in the emptiness.

She's somewhere far away
sitting on her porch
watching the sun sinking behind the church tower
alone
breathing the warm air
as another day of her life
is going to an end.
80 years and no smile wrinkles on her cheeks
her forehead still a history book
where lines of war and struggle
are deeply written.

Her eyes full of colour,
her heart
a room where hope and sorrow
constantly fight against each other.

Her voice, a joy to hear
though it saddens me
knowing that she goes to sleep as the sun does—
lonely, in a dark, quiet infinity

straw
covers a raw wound
of new dirt,
where a tangle
of bushes and weeds
was ripped out
to soothe the sensibilities
of human aesthetics,
leaving behind
grieving trees
to mourn their neighbors.

turrets
of dandelion leaves
stand guard
over a peasantry
of grass.

chestnut trees
raise lamps of flowers,
kindling floral flames of red and white
to guide the planet
into summer.