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.


Postări populare de pe acest blog

Poezia ca spectacol, Prefaţa la Poeme din luna îngerului risipitor de Alex. Ştefănescu


Omul cu ochii mari și inima rotundă (Un fel de prefață care pictează zâmbetul pe față)