Poetry & Arts

Twisted verses

 

I listen the night silence.

Of longings dressed.

Orient, of many tips star.

Tips, touching my entrails with fingers

with magic poetry.

An illuminated tent of love, such candles inside my poetess glance.

I am silent from absurdity of this moment of sudden death.

I am not wild... I do not see her beauty. Only

unknown constellations, an immense planet

of sands and deserts.

It is not a dream. It is thing of life and time spasms.

Turned time out to be a present in the prints of perfumed sheets by gathered flowers in the station.

A verse of hope invades my dreams village.

It has a Gypsy song playing of writing a veil

of seven petals, blessed incense, for love goddess, in my twisted poem and without rhyme.

I fly...

fly for meeting this galaxy of indecipherable eyes.

I do not know the rails of this assumed poems, but taste this enchantment of mournful moments...

The pain of the absence love is stronger than words, I know a ancient verse, soaked by winds tears. Crying in the wings of the psalms not known of my days.

A crying of relief, mixed with poetry.

I go, passion. And fly in the dawns instinct...

With or without them... My Bird.

Crazy  bird, in love with the magic words.

Of tomorrow I do not know the colours, but I know the writing music:

- I died... Of love, I died...

I know... Eyes at the final moment of poetry that lives in me.

Spell to learn tomorrow's flight and kiss the lips of a cloud that smiles on the oasis invented for the near meeting.

© HSSofia 2007 

The WINDOW

 

Sometimes poet takes away

things from the city: a wall, a shadow

of a dead man, colours that oblige it

being lightly ashamed. They say

what is a common operation this inquiry

of memory brought in geography

when it fell asleep. But the poet insists: it takes away

for example a window. It takes away three or four

woman's most beautiful legs, a feeling

a smell, elegant memories

in abridgement: elementary presences

communicated between the years. It takes away the window. And puts

the window in several points

of the Universe: here sees a river

over there feels through the window screams and laughter’s

and then flatters

with hands, head of a twisted poet

like what losses

solemnly attentive

in the hot night. The window is distributed

for countries and faces. The poet loses

the window of sight. Disappeared.

Rests in walls

glues him to clothes,

obliges a blink. The window, perhaps,

be less or more than an imitation

of animals that travel in the ceilings triangle

in impenetrable reflex of dawns

in the palm of someone’s hand who cannot already

open or close it.

 

The window is built

little by little, says

thousands of invented and naked words,

is an image

in subtle balance. The window is now

almost carry, she seems done of

high familiar meditations. Does not even need to be

absence, like a portrait

 

what goes out from knots for all streets

where a darkened profile bursts

where some another life was welcomed.

 

 

© HSSofia 2007 

04/07/07