Long awaiting on shore

for mysterious nights,

that come to your doorstep,

holding a dandelion in their naked hand.

Light reflections of riverbed on the sleeves,

all the white candles that we bear without burning them,

as if we wouldn’t burn ourselves

on the threshold of an agonizing encounter

with desire itself.

But the brave one reverses the curse,

knows how to touch glaciers without melting them,

knows the nature of love affairs.
And in repose, glances at the face that holds immaculate grace,

without attaching it to their own possessions,

without possessing the heart of this face.

Adept of gentleness,
of mature patience.
The wise nights.

Guarding my heart;

What an idiosyncratic strategy.

People’s actions are carved straight lines on someone’s soft arms.

And their minds, saddled like horses,

nonplussed.

From behind, a wave of broken lightbulbs approaches,

Fragments of glass violently driven into the skin.
In those dead lights, memories are evaporated.

Only the surplus remnants of them are now able to fill the gaps.

This was accepted in advance.

Hearts are birds falling from great altitudes,

remembering a swan song on their way,

holding a printed picture of a beloved.

Reciprocated heavens gazed at
untouched lips of dawn.
The only question that I hold
Is how to climb the stairs
That lead to heights of godly fruits.
Why can we only share this land with birds
When they are pulled to earth?

Wearing my face to see the delicacy of native streets,
How much this soil has absorbed of our emotional dust
That glimmers with ethereal beauty.
Sometimes I realize our mothers carried us, untethered, from the realm of energy
Into the solidity of the world of matter.
And the reason for this pull through this vortex was an act of love.
And these streets are the final point
From which we are now brave.

Does light find its shelter when it’s turned off?

Nothing inspires the stranger anymore;
his eyes in full, active vagrancy,

searching for any brisk encounter with virtuous hope,

but they only land on a ray of sunshine,
highlighting the path, pointing west.

To the west, he finds dry land,
mischievous land, hungry for arms of kindness.

Impalpable, catatonic mirage, reflected by the sounds of shivering dead grass,

blown by the November morning wind.

And hollow, doorless churches to the west, at this hour, meet drafts

that carry the force to blow out all the praised and chanted candles—
for the loved and lost,
for the warmth of the body,

for frostbitten souls.

It’s in that darkness the stranger realises himself:

standing on his knees,

patting and crying over this land,

asking for ease, begging for bliss.

And it's the pain he feels,
that kills him harder than the death itself.