By the nocturnal rose
stands our earthly faith,
voluptuously gentle, rising in the warm wind,
its rich wildness, opening boldly.

With no transmission of graciousness,
it, in its core being,
contains no less love,
no less primordial curiosity,
with which we fearlessly stand—grander
than the terror of not knowing,
and of being afraid to understand.

Faith, with its sister doubt,
never ceases to stem from brutal concrete,
just as early spring flowers rise,
demolishing all machinery and order,
sustaining our trust in love,
of which nature is composed.

And, reaching beyond catatonic despair,
it holds our heart with warm hands
when it is destined to produce its last beats.

In love, our fear was searching for the war,
through mezzanine escaping,
and chimneys furthermore.
Yet strength in us transformed, and love now stands for plural—
what had been singular before.

And in flights of minds, the crashing of hearts,
both on the furthest heights,
the fear was one malevolent hazard,
completely uncompromised.
Just walk beside me—
I want to know
if this is true or just my new mirage.

Dreams
are melting glaciers under my eyes,
when they first meet the sun
upon the dawn.
Tower of ivory, as cold, white hands—
yet soft.
don’t open them—
let them preserve
their enchanting form,
so my eyes shall keep all magic.
For a beautiful moment,
I want to stay in phantasmagoria;
for never, nor ever,
do I want to flee the dream room.

Let’s leave all flowers here alone.

Friend’s eyes, brine-drenched,
effervescent in the sun, abyssal blue, pearls.
And the glance of a strong,
foam-laced wave,
beholding passing observers
in timidity.
Oh, fury, oh fury—
grand savage, wind-lashed waters,
let his arms go to the gulf, all selfless,
gave himself to the shore,
obliquely turned, went missing.
To the Leviathan’s corpse he turned,
never came back.
Long gone, and mourned—
seafarer’s sorrow.

Never in history,
the trajectory of mysterious occurrences
could be guessed or read linearly.
For even rain falls when
it feels it should arrive.
The alchemy of empathy is intelligent,
and so far, voluptuously intuitive—
selfless, yet in possession of great temper.

The eternal mother of ‘coup de grâce’
sweeps tears from our eyes,
once again meeting us on the return
of having faith in ourselves,
when we could fall,
if life felt, to the extreme, forlorn.

The owl of Minerva only flies at dusk,
and the stellar seed of the philosophical zoo,
on its final flight, is destined to **** history.

Meanwhile, in our nocturnal richness,
it’s the galloping through our phantasmagoria that we fear the most;
for the impossibility of motion in a dream stands as a gate to unreachable power.
So, we accept a little death, it seems,
as a gift of armor,
to start the journey of breaking through.

Alternative ways do exist,
but each leads to a singular outcome:
walk through the mirror fearlessly,
and in each death find eternity.

Life of having two hearts
One that knew the love,
knew the eyes of doom,
knew the feeling of an upcoming tempest.
At what time to arrive at the amorous place,
before lifting one’s gaze,
after the plume of saline, in amalgamation with citric fragrances—
overpowering, and of rich darkness—
went immortal from the lawn fields,
into the glass world,
and fell there, from the great heights—******.

And another heart—substitute in armor—
longed for no specific lore,
just remembered nothing,
and, hitherto,
known for no desire
to love.