I have a great many dreams,
Fierce passions in my heart,
In pursuit of each one,
My days and nights I part.
With every toil and endeavour,
I claim the fruits of strife,
And take my triumph home,
And rest on laurel's height.

I have a great many dreams,
Some within my reach I’ve clutched,
Others still lie in wait,
For my relentless pursuit.

I have a great many dreams,
Chasing all these dreams, I admit,
Can tire a soul, but still it's fun to win.
I persist, undeterred by doubt.

I smell the wild on you.
How the snow is caked in your fur.
When the night falls, what does
It offer besides survival.
And the means to be something
besides human.
We're stuck here somewhere where
The earth has broken.
And the cold envelopes everything it
Touches.
You stand there in the snow
Teeth bared.
Not afraid to go at it once more.
I've grown tired, so very tired.
Your eyes burn the snow.
That fierce longing to stay alive.
What else does the night offer,
We've consumed pretty much
everything else except each other.
And I am tired of fighting.
Nothing pretty survives out here alone,
In the dark.
Together, you and I nestled in each other's warm.
When hunger subsides.
We'll find it in each other

Dear fierce,
and little warrior.
The battle you are fighting
will not be won overnight
and your sword is so heavy.
You deserve to put it down;
you deserve to rest.

Life is like the air;
Always changing, always moving,
We breathe it in with ever-gasping lungs
It sustains us,
Keeps us moving, keeps us going
Keeps us changing.
It flows around us, through us
In us.
...
I love the storm.
It fills the sky with power
Becomes a masterpiece of air;
The wind ripping through the trees,
Swirling skittering leaves left scattered 
To dance on wet grey pavement 
The unassuming air reigns supreme 
Lord of the elements,
Firey and wild

I reflect with a projection,
when hearing
melodies of rhythm or
stronger
lower basses like guttural
voice chords, especially
in the dark or being on a waiting room
of a car ride,
whenever I want it or not
/
an endless dance or some
semi-tangible
image that twirls into
hot
red
rose
petals
even though
there’s no dress to whizz,
feet strong like Carmen Amaya’s
had no mercy for Iberian taverns’
dance floors of flamenco
/
watching that spectacle
always
from discarded collage views
/
of that accounting
and how no
voice is needed to direct
the melody a vector,
only let it be sung-thrung
through the heat rising
and orchestra listened to
completely, sharp motions in
the eyes of the crowd
or those who had ever considered
pondering on me like a philosophy...

Maybe such styles and asphyxiations
of rapid ragged jerkings of too sharp
notes in the air cutting
the atmosphere like a blunt knife
have got to me a long time ago,
stay ever more as visions to moves
audacious, and have been
chosen beforehand my vessel
without its decision to be turned
into something greater
in the collaboration with my own other dishes
to fit Passion.

Then - then - I always imagine - then
in all that how
any certain entity
would be looking at that,
taking it in from the outside
and what that painting of me
partly
will be made as
in their sculpted no flesh
eyes.

/
Thank you
Ladies, Gentlemen, Whoever Further
for attending
/