The delirium of eventide
its winter colors
of gold and frost,
silently shows off.
Memories seem like
yellowed pages
of a crude winter almanac
that in the heart carves
the mistiest
damp melancholy.
Tonight, I see myself
as Nemo on the Nautilus,
misanthropic, eccentric explorer,
avenger of wrongs suffered,
in the presence of a mysterious island:
life,
his life!
Sometimes I have the impression
that I have already used up
all the days that one granted to me,
and I try to assimilate
all the acid rain from the sky.
The torment of humans
keeps me company
and becomes
my undisputed Lord.
I implore you,
my Heavenly Mother,
could you grant me
the divine virtue of endurance?
The bloom of an icy rose,
in this advancing twilight
has numbed the soul
in a cynical embrace,
and you,
and you, my Love,
are no longer there to inflame it.
The bloom of an icy rose,
in this advancing twilight
has numbed the soul
in a cynical embrace,
and you,
and you, my Love,
are no longer there to inflame it.
There is no longer the languid look,
there is no longer the fragrance
of your balmy breath
to intoxicate it,
to intoxicate that Love
that once, in the past,
of fierce,
young instinct,
lived.
In this dim light
that yields to the night,
I have resurrected in my heart
a latent torment
that only hoped
to return to the surface.
The cry,
diaphanous and lukewarm,
is a drift,
a poignant billow
of the end of the season,
and eclipses
among the shimmering,
gleaming crystals of Bohemia,
in the half-light
of the darkened room.
To the sound of unusual seconds,
I surround by siege
the bleak tundra of days,
in the utopia of creating a homeostasis
in my magical universe.
Where,
if not on the path of torment,
can I meet my authentic self again?
Unable to react,
I await divine judgment.
The streaked hues,
now dark
of the sky,
they amaze me,
in the stillness of fantasies,
in the dream that slowly
yields the proscenium
to the debut of the dawn.
I invoke you with gentle melancholy.
Thy face in the day that dawns,
is a mane of Apollo
that illuminates the seas
in the cradle of the East.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Mauro Montacchiesi.
Published on e-Stories.org on 07.05.2015.
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