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(June 2012)

Smiles

You see them pass by, sojourners of your life

Some stop to dazzle your train, fogging the horizon of its trails,

Others share with you their path to construe visions alike

Yet just a few will reflect the glimmer of your eyes.

Despite human reasoning to expect so that you can give

You keep yourself naïve and share without prerequisites

One smile of solace, two for care, three: for the deepest feeling

You lose too much so that you win towards the dawn of dreams.

But here it comes, as if from an outdated track, the one changing all sounds

Replete with déjà vu and tempting mysteries alike

You dance away , eyes closed on an open soul, grasping it to the core

You strum and drum with all you hold the purpose of its melodies.

Yet, was it him reflecting you, or rather you reflecting him?

When your heart speaks its sways to him, is that a weakness or a virtue?

On the new track, you blithely steer an ad-hominem reasoning

You live one smile alone, amid the same collage of love, weaving destinies.

(April 2011)

The Path

One day

I took a road narrow and long,

with cracking beams of wood hurting my feet, tiring out patient horizons

aiming for old and new in the same truth;

it searched for you and couldn’t shape you

until long time had walked by my side

for me to realize

that I was never alone

and you were with me after and before,

giving me strength with your glow,

carrying my burden secretly

everytime I found serenity,

leaving with me a precious gift to wear for eternity –

your memory.

(January 2010)

The Unicorn

There he goes, wild and kind

Running free on open fields

His own passion to grasp

To the end of significances and back

At confines to stand out

Eyes to bewilder, feelings to wake up

In pain or broad grins

Like a squire of love, flaunting a blade of two sides.

There is something exotic to foresee

Maybe in the stout figure with black eyes

Surely in the contagious freedom out of a continent’s mark

In the life of a Pi, with no rules but the sky.

I wonder if you fancied your stars

In times of hated deserts with wolves to dance around

And if, among your prances, you saved for them true kisses

Like cinema paradise.

For I was afraid to ride

When I approached your mane of fire

And showed you innocence entangled in courage

With only the skill of confidence as knowledge;

You gaze at me out of your heartbeats’ stampede

Roaring like lions in fierce defeats

Hungry for more in your sweetest fights

You pause and whisper: “Love me, start now.”

(February 2013)

Poetry

Poetry is beautiful

A debonair flaneur veiling feelings

While mirroring them boldly –

Silent words coming to life, always differently

At the end of their meaning

Grasped by stranger eyes

Who label them with own experiences.

Poetry is music as a trope

Putting emotions in the notes

Forgotten by the stave in its theory

And then it fashions itself to acclaim distorted harmonies

Displaying a hot attire with elegance

Seen as unique for its tailored creativity

With paramount details without accessories.

Before such exquisiteness, wordy prances are not needed

Nor tunes of pastiche melodies

For one can find the definition of your being

And feel your spirit imprinted-

Words begetting passion within

Music pacing breathing

You are poetry. You are beautiful.

(July, 2011)

Rewind

Somewhere, where space regains its trace

Where realities and fantasies intertwine

And whys turn into wows

There reigns an orchid in full bloom

At the windowsill of life.

She’s white and begets tender sprouts

Balming the air with flavours of a true kind

Like a loyal soldier in armour of trust

Keeping a love safe from the outer harm

With the seed of care germinated inside.

Her utmost view is a wooden bed of silence

Where her perfume wraps his shape in reverberating hues

Promising warmth to emanate

Whenever feelings are embraced

By meanings immersed in their plain eloquence.

And when the day falls for the night stars

The frail white turns into blush

For there, a girl pampers a boy in tears

To purify in values reality’s charred marks

To dry his eyes with her own sun.

Above fading vistas where clocks lose their flair

Time constantly rewinds its antiquated track

To a forwarded point of the same crystalline beliefs

Where an orchid rests her fantasies upon a silken bed

Giving her blossom’s breath to scent the universe.

(December, 2011)

Like Rain

Outside the rain pours down with memories

within, where all the tears dried out;

his kiss shelters the best corner of her feelings,

where she keeps the flow of its imprint,

the essence running through her veins,

becoming one with the pulses of her breathing;

yet she remembers he was different

when her eyes first gazed at him

and he was playing the card of their chance to win

something they never defined

for silence spoke to them recurrently–

she, enthusiasm of heart,

he, the soother of the nights,

together, even when afar,

to prove in care what is closest to a smile,

losing track of moments

when they forgot to measure the size

of the room where habits and newness mixed up

and love took over the corner of confidence;

there she awaits him,

keeping his faith in her hand

like an unused perfume

she doesn’t want it to evaporate

but rather herald with it the theme of spring

in the landscape of their significance,

where hope is dancing on the ceiling

and art has put its sisters to work,

decorating the walls

with little things – his favourites

and her deep gestures of beauty.

Her eyes frame the rain again

which shivers on the pane of purity,

abundantly bleeding with past before her senses,

which she won’t let infiltrate

within the tenderness she keeps for him,

close to the embers and a tea

she prepared late in the night,

for his return

so that it makes a dawn out of her life,

or simply win over the drops outside,

like a magician of her happiness

who draws a rainbow on the same spot,

where the rain had cried and longed each time

for him to come back.

(August 2013)

Well of Destiny

At the well of destiny

the impostor of visions met the conceiver of beliefs

and shook hands

for the same length of their intent:

to gain volume on their glass of sand

and have patience mould some stars in clay

for the girl with almond eyes they framed,

there, in the place where she came

her dreams to perpetuate

with only a big heart and one cent.

Like the north and south of the same eagerness,

the wordsmiths of phrases conjuring nothingness

tossed sparks of promises around her faith

to feed themselves with her innocence,

to drink a rare drop of blue

under a sky witnessing fallacious virtues.

The first was shrewd of shows and old of means,

brandishing techniques of paramount reveries,

selling fame and wishes

in exchange for sips of blood his victims

would bestow to such mesmerist,

learning a melody of subliminal lyrics,

which his black eyes were preaching

with the smile of his past victories.

The other one, too young,

was running for fresh trust

to gain experience and be grand

just like his rival nearby,

except that he wouldn’t steal hearts,

but let butterflies without wings fly

or endorse summers deprived of sun.

The well of yore could see it all,

beyond the murmurs of its revolt

and, as the wisest of them all,

it welcomed the coin

and listened to the girl’s inner voice,

moved by her beauty to perceive,

with undulations shivering for her safety,

in a space where time was just skimming through values;

it gently reflected her face

from the deepness of its knowledge,

answering her who to believe in,

what strength and legacy to better keep

or where to search

when cosmoses would dissipate in mist.

As she laid upon its marble steps,

staircase of symbols in art shapes,

tired of thoughts, refilled with love,

the girl said goodbye to both courtesans

for a better reach of her horizons,

for a deeper purpose of her core

and watched her coin fall

in the piths of her own hope

where it was cherished like gold,

among the old and young and bold –

reminiscences of peregrines,

who passed by wisdom’s ponderings

at least once a lifetime in that spot of bounty.

No one could ever grasp

that the well was hiding the registrar of lives

where, coin by coin, all entries were kept

like strings of fate to evaluate,

to give worth or remove glow

to sighs and lies of humankind

for the sake of one word alone,

named the secret of the world,

kept in potions of bliss only for those

who proved themselves right over the wrong -

a matter of strength and lenience

at the well of happiness.