Saturn soars into the air,
then it quickly nosedives,
accelerates,
then slows down,
but it is only Maya,
but it is only an illusion.
As an accomplished artist,
of palette and brush gifted,
The God Saturn paints new grooves,
it new arcana chisels,
in the prairies of the soul.
Saturn,
the God of time,
inlays, then on my face
a pleated scroll,
immortal,
vibrant with delusions just tasted.
Pindaric, alien abstractions,
they linger on a vintage shelf,
on dusty tomes,
even more vintage.
I had no time,
and I regret it,
to honor their nobility.
Here,
The ticking catches me
of a pendulum.
It, too, now, is
almost a withered rose.
I try to guess
how long,
still,
it can tick for me.
Your eyes
are mystical theurgy,
a timeless universe,
where wanders
what no longer is.
I imagine you,
I see you gliding
on icy reflexes
of an existential mistral.
It is sudden,
exciting miracle,
a new star being born.
The cold evening wind
hisses madly.
A worn-out yearning,
again, like a prism,
wedges itself into the mind
and releases a feeble melopoeia
in the rarefactions of the soul.
Meanwhile
a sigh of nostalgia
is eclipsed into nothingness.
I am an erratic monad,
I try to get away
from a bad Karman
that now
blurs
every reminiscence.
It is cold weather,
gusts of mistral
unhinge
the last gasps of my garden's hedge
and with them
the remaining reverberations of life.
The soul drowns
in the lake of memories.
Here is melancholy again,
here again, are the thorns
that tear
every breath of life.
I let myself go
on the wings of a gypsy chimera
that fades silently
in the rhythm
of lightless minutes.
And yet
throbs a wail of life
in the heart.
With joined hands,
with monolithic faith,
I yearn for the warmth of heaven.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Mauro Montacchiesi.
Published on e-Stories.org on 04.07.2015.
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