You’re a desert flower
I’m a river in flood
I would talk of the loudest murmur
Using gods, eternities and blood.
“Dam that river boy
What you can’t draw
You can’t know
There’s no goddess of love
We can’t let that lie flow”
And still talking of joy
It can’t all be sunflowers and bread
Our fingertips tap on glass
Letting the cobalt beyond fickle, and pass
A cigarette in the keyhole
Won’t stop the water level from rising
No matter the opera pieces which
Essential love go preaching-advertising
It’s not what the administration asked
For, but I can’t help and feel
Where the planners wanted a fireplace
Fire yes, like at the gates of Hell,
My only torture the powerful spell
Which keeps my gaze without solace
On a youless horizon, longing
Leave the pragmatic love
To notaries and accountants
The bureaucracy of the days
Strips them bare, but not naked
No stamp, calendar or plan
Can Prometheus infinities’ breath
Bargaining without conviction, strength
To keep the poems and its words safe
By repeating subdued patterns again
And again, and again, and again
Beyond the trains, the maps
There are millions of wonders
Filling those muzzled gaps
Ignored by acturial lovers
With their metrics and rulers.
Let’s hide in a treehouse:
They’ll never gaze at spires.
Leave your boots on the ground
Firmly, as an anchor
But not your feet
For every grey word of the ordinary
A step appears in a secret creek
Through mystic leaves and ebbs
I want you to walk there and seek
With me all the suns rise at once
And die, and every small occurrence
Of primitive umbratic chasm
Evaporating their drumwords
To the resonating attentive birds
You’re a desert flower
I’m a river in flood
Those oh, human eyes
Can’t know or explain
But when the out of place waters
Met the precious sandy plain
The whole reign blossomed
Beauty for the love not to drain.
It’s not going away
And if it’s going a way
We’ll follow.
Letters to myself: a diary 