Embarked on an ardent, darker flight,
forcing my own soul to seek tenebrous love.
Weary of constant dizziness,
of complicated thresholds,
and of the spiritual crime.

What brought us to this night?—
the mystery,
the fright.
What has been kept? What will be given?
So unresolved and so opaque,
this—what enfolds the being.
No clear path, no order,
no purity in time.

Only today, we have become able to touch and feel time.
Only today, heavenly—the sky has fallen onto our minds.
Only today, this soil feels omnipotent.
What once separated us from birds
is now only the flying distance.

All lost hopes of becoming beautiful end today.
All the pain on crying faces melts and evaporates today.
And the sun will never die, nor the splendid flowers
that our mothers love.

All wars shall end today,
all children will find their way
to redefine the strength of heart
that kept their breath on hold
and blurred their sight.

How beautiful it is
that there is no other day
that can be called today.

our hands,
these are our hands holding a tender white bird,
an elegant creature of signal,
feathers of brighter times,
glances of loftier views—
ones that we, on land, must wait to understand,
with time, which stands far more mysterious;
time that crumbles and stretches,
dies without being born,
lives without comprehending its body.

The war for boundless and infinite satisfaction
happens to be the most complicated—
simply because we tend to understand only finite things.
But besides,
because we despise pain,
fighting to endure only pleasure,
which itself is the most bitter poison.
Living one day with eyes closed,
another without windows and doors.

Fate of love and its corresponding time frame left asunder,
so the spikes of benevolent attention,
so the malice of brute silence.
Only already-crossed points of no return
scream their love notes in the thick, damp, and wet forest.

Dark silk-spinner is the one we blame for all things undesirable to us,
we blame him for all things that scare us.
We ourselves knit the story of unjust occurrences to catch the orb-weaver
and prove he’s the villain,
knight of hell,
where dark fumes are condensed—
malice, blind and prickly malice.

We will blindly call the clearest river ugly, gasoline-rotten,
just to save our eyes
from seeing life in truth.

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.