Poem in chaste forms

I have insomnias of poem’s meaning,

They’re growing me in secrecy haughty snows,

In eyes I have hoarfrosts that command awakening,

To rediscover alphabets from drizzle.

Emotions I still want to hunt

In the souls full of words,

Still drinking snows are “angeling” me,

Loving me with tears for tooth.

Too easy I get drunk of written images,

That I don’t wear at my nature’s hat

As a child I hurt snow-banks with angels from pages,

And then I flew through verse on utterance lips.

I always had a knife in my soul,

Which still spins in the wound right now,

I sacrificed that talent in snow-banks,

Finding my herd through humour and paradoxes.

I still review curses to sheeps from ravines,

I still frame a star in universe,

Pictures I give birth through poems,

Loving you too human, your kind-hearted.

My sight tells a story in your soul,

Because we no more disguise the eyes in slaves,

Bent by the nights of wandering,

When moon was mirroring in black ravens.

I was seeing then through hoarfrost’s dermis,

The familiar cobweb,

In which Paradise gave the tribute to clay,

That puts in my words a guardsman.

Soldier of the word, I appreciate the silence,

That creates in mind so many quixotic worlds,

Only God gives us the power

To pour in silver shapes snows too chaste.

After-all, the angels are grizzled,

For so long whitening their nature,

With their white that reflects on mountains,

Like a spring they clarify our utterance.

The insomnias that give birth to world’s evolutions,

I wait to give the answer that I really know,

We have in verse the saying, in spirit the  solutions,

It always leaks in mire everything that stays alive.