The Hope, the Test and the Sorrow

Precious little thing, symbolic.
To none conquered, yet always seen.
You are everything found and unfound;
But you were never stolen…
No thief of the night could ever keep your grace hidden from lawful eyes.
For there are places for things that are kept:
A vase for the rose, a shelf for books,
The wall for paintings, A room for bed and post,

And the heart for you.

As a room where no windows need be.
And no sun or moonshine could better be
than the glow that you lay over all things.
But you are not a thing of my possession, never to be kept, like objects,
Yet the object of my adoration

No thief am I; rightly do I ask for your stay.
And rightly do you grace me with it;
A step so light,
A look so keen,
The soft curl of your lip;
I caress your smile and cherish the warmth it leaves on my fingers
And your scent… it lingers

Precious little thing, that thought.
Fear has nothing on you.
It was my commandment to seek you,
Yet I just stumbled upon you on my way to self-absorbance.
But isn't that the way we come upon all things, great things, terrible things?
I'll never know, for all seems like bliss for the blind,
And tests for the suspicious,
And providence for the fool.

Does it matter?
I am redeemed by your touch
I am cleansed by your words
I need nothing but you, and I know it
Though knowing will not make me wiser
But having will make me virtuous

Precious little thing, allow me
I'll get the door for you
Just to find myself following you towards the other doors
The ones yet unknown
Always following, but following walking alongside you
Never behind, never ahead,
If only you give me the honor of your grace, never uninvited:
For no thief am I

Just the keeper of your glow.

*       *       *

Why are you so quiet?
Do you not feel vulnerable in silence?
It's so solemn when nothing is moving:
nightsky adorned by a motionless moon
the wind so strong, but quiet.
And the leaves, suspended.
So many.
So mute.

Your own voice would protect you.
But then the ripple in the river would move;
and thus, to talk (oh, what sweet voice…)
would be to lay so bare.
So cruel.

Why are you so still?
Let only nature stay frozen.
For your warmth would be terribly missed;
that temperate touch you try to conceal.
Sarcastic wit does not become you,
and the vain taste of dramatic aesthetics
for you could never prove real.
You see?, look, there goes one leaf (please sweet voice, never stop flowing).
It all moves again.
And I am shaken with the words spoken.
So brief.

The wind is getting stronger.
And all those eyes are looking closer.
It's no use anymore, pay no attention my love, keep walking
this time forever…
However hopeless.

We could have built a house in this unmoving moment.

If only we could paint ourselves so dark as night while naked,
and vanish...

*       *       *

Who under the faintest light seeks to see
but a glimmer, the one of such sweet sorrow,
as it guides my way through your heart, and your bounds breaches?
It was I who at the sight of closure's road
looked to stare down the walls of light that I needed to seek...
Then and there, in the sad hour that followed that spectacle, the moon;
inconclusive memories
wild and restless heartbeats
excitable sorrow of a graceful song
All became eager bearers of the answers I looked for.
And their righteous voice would break,
as the soul that forever held their strengths
in dreams like this would weep.

In these dreams,
where we were,
where we existed,
birds of beauty and peace always fluttered closer,
while raindrops and other angels danced over roses.
Then the ever-graceful moonlight would at this time show,
and the limelight of fleeing daylight would fall gentle before our pose.
It was in that place where the most beautiful of beings (oh yes, nature is an entity),
the song of wind,
would take our side and hold us till the eve of dawn.

Where we were,
we would be serenely waiting, serenely playing,
serenely wishing, serenely laying in the arms of us.
Alas, completion of all things pure laid before us;
The moment for the silent storm…
Yet, there was no moment to pay respects to lust.

Where we were,
all words spoken would remain.
All the tears fallen would keep us wet.
The silence within us would then come forth, wondering.
Not to cry, not to love, only to presents bestow;
gripping time by the hand and to hand the angel his timely bow.

But now you are not there.
Never there.
Like a world devoid of art;
a world without the counsel of a song.
Perverse sight, waiting for the upbringing of things unborn.
Knowingly welcoming despair at deception's door.
And hoping against all hope to stand guard against solitude's touch.

But now you don't need to be there, leave empty this room.
Seek new touch, taking with you the moon…
Fair daylight will keep me warm,
light like candles these empty hands.
Yet never again will I by our night be seen…
Though you will, behind the visage of memory, confuse me,
and in the end look for what in shadow you once sought.
And when you seek me in that weakest hour,
it will never be me who you'll confront.

Is the revelation of truth, or anything inevitable,
so wretched a fate,
that you now, unheard, need to seek the strength
which from both would keep you safe?
Oh no, forget these words and the load they bear.
Walk away towards your chosen road
and take with you my deepest care
I loved you then, before the break of dawn
I'll love you ever, until the moon won't show and the wind won't talk
Both as I love you now, when my heart can no longer, gentle, walk.

Be not sad

Be not sad, young mind and even younger heart:
If time were a mineral, wear it like jewels.
Adorn yourself beautifully,
so that you may be worthy of touching those things that are truly grand.
Live by breathing hard,
enjoy this and it will make you come alive.
Then dance in circles until the moon is in this essence clad
and means nothing except for what you want.

Be not sad, burning soul:
Know that the most stirring things are those that happen in dreams.
But never forget the difference;
within dreams you can't feel your heart beating,
and in reality, the pain, when it is a true thing,
is felt both in spirit and body.
Though the heart will always move,
And deem the wound as ephemeral nothing.

Be not sad, strength that aches:
Avoid most things by others coveted,
and make treasures of the things you find.
For even a grain of sand,
for those keen of sight,
Could be like a star in the palm of your hand.
Come to terms with beauty,
it will leave you when it must.
For eyes, skin, and hair, being of man, decays.
Though all that is material and not of the body will remain.
This said, make precious gifts of your craft,
so that all beautiful things within you will forever last.

Be not sad, trembling reason:
Use simple thoughts to speak of complex things;
The most complex mind thrives in simplicity.
But do not rely only on the complexity of thought;
For what's on thought, stays on thought, and does not share its rewards.
Do cherish the complex paths of the heart,
their intricacies, their rhythmic solemn song.
Most of all, understand the riches contained within,
for what's on the heart, stays on the heart,
but does share its rewards.

Be not sad, young mind and even younger heart:
When words are stronger than the hand that writes them,
look inside,
there may still be joy from which to tap.
Do not look for sorrow to be your guide,
for pain may seem elegant,
But only to those poets that have yet to live their lives.

The seed of regret

The fleeting thought that I would detain would have read like this:

I wondered around, as if aimless, but still I observed

If anything had a reason to be imitated
If a tree cried out to be described
If the wind pushed stronger to be noticed
I feared it would never again be portrayed...

Still, I wondered around, as if aimless
and spoke of the elevated thought,
of images of courage,
of all things I have since then sought.

Yet never of things that were mine did I speak
Like the poet who is blind in the house of mirrors,
or deaf.
And thus no voice ever rose,
no hand ever struck,
all things would settle;
the ideal flame would sleep,
but all things after would finally become light.

A moving light,
as if walking into a chamber with a thousand fireflies contained within.
Beautiful beings, pieces of spirit
slowly becoming mine.

In this closed chamber, no longer full of mirrors,
as wings became skin,
and such bright beauty grew dim,
a new light emerged inside the room
slowly caressing away the gloom
and as patiently as the shifting inside a clock of sand
this newly formed light
seemed to shine from newly formed hands

No longer would a single thought be detained, and no longer fleeting, they read like this:

After that night, I wondered around, no longer aimless;
no longer did I sit by and observed.
For there are no trials I would ever again feel coerced into avoiding,
no boundaries that must remain unbroken for fear of death.
For fear should never claim that fiery passion for the unknown,

which most righteously belongs to life.

A moving life, the unhindered blooming of the most beautiful flower I have ever known.

Nothing

Of any other night I could have chosen.
Thinking of a thousand other places I could have been,
In this place where no other human would be seen
There stood I that night, gazing at that house, embraced by fear and coldness.

I picked up my step, and towards the wooden doors I went.
While, amidst the cold and the sweeping leaves,
A sense like dread came and went sounding like a hiss.
While with one hand I held my bag, and with the other my empty chest

I finally came upon the wooden doors,
opened them, and fled from unlit skies.
Then towards a deeper darkness I brought my eyes
as if being moved by an unseen force

There was nothing resembling dear life
Nor anything that this emptiness could delude;
this overwhelming nothing had my senses in strife

Yet I knew it was a troubled voice that brought this inquietude
This shapeless chant that in my ears cried…

It was the unspoken whisper from the ghost of solitude

The Sleeper, the Angel, and I

On this darkest hour,
of the darkest night,
when heavy eyes become slumber, and slumber becomes dream,
I find myself lost in thought.
A thought of dark and light, of black and white
where words become song
of beauty or sadness, of peace or madness;
to live within this cry, in this otherwise silent night, I long.
Meanwhile the sleeper dies
And will never again hear the music of the angel's light,
or its prayer of dreadful, unknown woe.

The sleeper, the angel and I
Bid me well fair night of nights
When each of us, as you cast yourself upon, must die
First the sleeper, then the angel, then I
Embraced by the dawn's eve shall be
When in acts of empty remembrance, gentle stygian night,
Wretched, tainted dreams we weave
And disregard unspoken words that make our hands unclean.
For this, we will forever grieve
And for its consummation we will wait forevermore

Still, this we ask of you
Recite only tales about the better days of ignorance
For the moment before angel's death, the sleeper's death
the evolution of thought,
is the last moment of bliss before the rueful moment when innocence is lost

And when I sleep or die tonight
As I slept or died last night,
Won't you cry the song of life,
and light my way so I can follow?
Be brief for me, cold night of nights
and I'll no longer pray away my sorrow

At least, until I die again tomorrow.