created a isolated world
than plucked
myself into reality,
for impulsive reasons.

A gun came up along the way.
Marrying you with the grave prematurely.
However, all that was needless,
As your father had already engaged you two before,
You’d been dead inside for oh so long.

Todd was right about that all along,
More perceptive than the rest.

How ironic and grotesque:
a fire burning so truly and strongly was put out
with a single blow,
How the greatest few hours of your life were made gradually
into your worst and, eventually, your end.

And how is that fair?

The curtains have been drawn,
The audience is long gone,
Yet your act won’t be in vain,
Not if I have something to say.
No, most certainly not!

You’ve become the greatest proof for all those fools
Of the power of the living word,
Of the power of a rebelled voice,
Of the immortal art of a being of poetry,
who’s the true soul of the universe.
Keating’s work became fulfilled in your choices,
The very fruit of his teachings.
You showed those mortals, that no matter
what they claim, do or inflict on you,
they could never **** you.
Neither rules, nor words nor the trigger.
You’re the champion, you’re the winner.

Altogether, we became Poetry ourselves.
No quills, paper or audience were needed,
just the world around us, our voices and passion in our eyes.
We gained the upper hand in the process of the withering,
Weaving ourselves into the tether of all the matters.
Now, no grave or unwritten memories shall restrict us or make us perish.
Never more, as art has no rules.

With all due respect, I give you back
your rightful laurel wreath.
With all your greatness you deserved that prize,
of meaning greater than just a crown of an actor;
The victory over others’ power,
Over fear to speak,
Over fear to sing,
Over fear to be.

You were a misunderstood artist, though not like those, that are many of them.
Your amalgamation of all that you were,
Though so harshly interrupted on that fateful night,
made the authorities and that cold academy see,
That it is them who let you down, not you,
That they can never quench
the call of the Life,
the truth whispered up there
among the trees,
A soul’s thriving beauty, in all the madness of the existence

The curtain’s fallen,
The audience is long gone,
But I shall commemorate you forevermore,
As a poet and artist of the Life owes it
to another of their kin.
With all the pride, honour and bitterness,
You are more than welcome,
as a true member,
in the Dead Poets Society.
- - -
As I let quote myself
in this gender observation,
based on the B. Sáenz work:
“Por eso lloramos,
Por eso reímos,
Por eso se alborota
nuestro corazón,
Y por eso vivimos”

under escort, visiting life,
I'm unable to command modern times,
at least here I can be god of words.

By the sea, we should go beloved
in a ship fashioned with the gleam of our love.

On the land, we should tread
in the glittering-gold
trails left by Eros.

In the air, we should
wallow in cloud nine
and sparkle the flames of love
in the blues of the sky.

I honestly don't know what to write

I just fill this with empty words
With no sense of direction at all

Is this the feeling of being stagnant
Or just the fact that losing someone
Means losing the the reason of writing

To make her immortal
In the world of literature

Of where the red, blue light meet:
Children found a place to stay.
Safe in the universal land,
Awake, to the mystic sounds of silver sand.

A radiant joy houses the godly Nature,
Trees shine the glory,
Upon artists of conscience
Of will, veiled in storm shrill sails
Of consciousness, a sagacious mast of gilded pearls.

A gold-smug rain of dust,
And a jewel moon,
Songs in the attic;
Choose your sign
In the divinity, of day and night.

Of any door you choose,
The pact remains same
Fly it on the reverie stage,
A Utopian shaman dances in a blues station!