please touch, please reach through
worlds, and rescue, grasp, tease
hold firm and wrap yourself
around these vacant needs
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Oh, where do the hours go?
play – staged a small street
a clean name…linen hall
There will come a day when the leaves no longer
They will have been plucked and fallen
Down the darkest hole,
The branches will droop diminished
And you will sacrifice your hope
Of saving his last few minutes,
This air is the air of an oven,
it is so deathly hot.
For days the sun has been crisping the microbes.
A boy has disappeared from the village.
2AM and the foothills of the Pyrénées
lit with light flashes between the dark spaces of trees,
foliage on foliage.
Sparks of light glitter the mountain sides.
Up here- mountains before us, village below us-
it’s like an ant farm, lines of lights
following the twists and turns between
row after row of houses
scaling slowly into the mountains
for the third consecutive night.
The day it happened,
we’d walked into the foothills,
And how many thoughts on my mind
Papers thrown out in a basket and
How much nonsense exists in a sigh
How primitive is
Man at first rising in the early morning light
Celestine is the color of the sky today
And she smiles at the scent of coffee
Poured in a ceramic brown cup that steams vaporously
Today I am no longer attracted by the
Chasing after of a dream
For those who want it
They can go and get it
Today I am alone with my thoughts
In my silence
I have no worries
I am convinced that life is sincere
That death is accepted
It becomes a tiny sapling
that plants its little roots
then from the stems
buds soon grow
with leaves and little shoots
As time goes by a petal forms
that’s just how nature grows
before too long that little bud
evolves into a rose
I have a soul
that must be sold-
I’m told it’s worth
the weight in gold,
I cannot get it back-
from voices on
this hellbound track…
Is it wrong that I still long to belong?
To share every care and touch your hair?
To pillow fight, fly a kite, hold me tight,
whisper secrets in the dark, swing in the park?
The lovers don´t touch,
final lies freeze their breath,
a brittle, vertical icicle.