suspended
Sweet moon
cuddle me gently in your light tonight;
may your petals fall on the shivering lake
and be a pillow for my troubled eyes;
may the scents of the sleeping flowers
give a shelter to my exhaled fears.
The day has come to its end
and i draw on the stars the resoultion
of gestures i left hanging on shiny threads
for a breath to cool me down from the heat,
that now are clustered with insecurities
on the fruits bent in their worshipings
awaiting for the ripeness of birds songs.
I know that tomorrow the sun will rise again
and its arlequin rays will lift up your veil
that covers all that surrounds me with whispers
of leaflages mimiking the absent wings of the dove.
Tomorrow colours will crowd with different voices
the blue halo that gives building their prayed rest
and nothing will hold the reward i dreamed to find
in the eyes of friends awakeing from your womb
to greet me with the scream of the betrayed slumber.
Nothing that holds a shadow will seem to be reliable
torn out from the communion of crimson haze
that knits all that breaths with the aim of your lullaby;
i will meet in the black that all colours smears
the failures pointing to the extremeties of my dreams
and i will hide in the blind thirst that i have inside
to merge with the directions that the sun erodes
remembering again the dew that envelopes your song.
Will the world that now reflects your touch
hold against the hammering of the heated air?
for i feel a fever growling inside my veins
that will not sustain the knavery of the sun
the ghosts that inform the lullaby of the shrubs
will bear no confort under the steaming day
and the missed promises that the soil whispers
will make their departure too real to be sustained
and i will explode with no art among the begging eyes
of people shivering to shake off their boredom.
What i am is an echoe of your mathernal voice
that in this engulfing path burst with whispers
into the life of a yown frozen in its endless possibility
and embraces me in the uncounscious offering of love
for a time before the day revealed that all achievement
come to the loss of the light in the fireflies alphabet.
I am addicted to your kisses,
to their promises of covering with crystal kindness
the grass subdued by the sacrifice of the slug's tears
and spider legs knitting the sermon of dug graves;
to the flakes of your arching lips
i rise my prayer for the belladonna nectar
that will dumb my senses in still sleep
for reaching the fading of your embrace
with waxed limbs unable to feel our goodbye.
