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.


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