I sat facing the blank page of my inspiration .
Multifaced past searching a reflection in the rain,
when scripture comes in four seasons of fall ,
and a few moons ...
I contemplate these symphonic litanies ,
dancing in the mood of the clouds .
Dishevelled eurythmic rhythm ...
Wintered castaway on treachery islands
too feverishly exposed ,
weary of desire and abandonned ...
Love can only be outlined
on unfinished curves ...
I don\'t remember ,
if your eyes were midnight blue,
wild amber or alluvium ember ...
Perhaps ,solar bush shade ,
whose burn causes one
to take refuge in the woods ...
Like hunted beast .
Was that my way of loving ?
The artist sculpts feeling
only in touch of wandering ...
Faithful marble that always
marry the shape of my silences ...
Is it you,my sweet madness ,
speaking to me in chimeric
distant galaxies ,
that I translate into everyday worlds ?
The end of time ,
is but an echo of seasons of fantasy...
Imaginary ,that a masked harlequin
engraves in letters of blood ,
on a parchment of rediscovered eternity ...