i won't let the moment talk like a man
There is no sense for the dawn to be dressed like a woman and then she wakes up
and walks down the garden as though she will be wed to morning,
where morning is a groom, dressed by the fabrics of the sun, and looking like a
fool, handing light to dawn, and then, how do they make love at noon? Ah night.
Night is not an old woman.
Our poetry will make her a princess dressed in the regal colors of black. Not the spider. She must be ready for the next stanza.
A woman with
moon as crown and stars as earrings. She glows like the woman you love
once. Then she dies. Like the night. She dies to give way for another day to live.
she is black space giving way to another form of space.
Morning is a veranda. A lower garden where there is no bee.
Only butterflies allowed here, she says.
Living butterflies in true colors.
And what it is to live?
And to be true?
It is to suffer. It is the beginning of dying.
This is another face of
our poetry.
Paradox is truth
turning turtle.
And what about the turtle? It is animate. But it is. We attribute it to it. It used to live on fire. Philanderer.
The gods changed its taste. It now lives on water and happy on the coldness of the pond where the moss and pebbles serve him company. Nature gifted it a house which is a punishment for its escapades.
Well, imagination is spacious. You see that? That one. Yes that one. It is endless.
There is no sense for the dawn to be dressed like a woman and then she wakes up
and walks down the garden as though she will be wed to morning,
where morning is a groom, dressed by the fabrics of the sun, and looking like a
fool, handing light to dawn, and then, how do they make love at noon? Ah night.
Night is not an old woman.
Our poetry will make her a princess dressed in the regal colors of black. Not the spider. She must be ready for the next stanza.
A woman with
moon as crown and stars as earrings. She glows like the woman you love
once. Then she dies. Like the night. She dies to give way for another day to live.
she is black space giving way to another form of space.
Morning is a veranda. A lower garden where there is no bee.
Only butterflies allowed here, she says.
Living butterflies in true colors.
And what it is to live?
And to be true?
It is to suffer. It is the beginning of dying.
This is another face of
our poetry.
Paradox is truth
turning turtle.
And what about the turtle? It is animate. But it is. We attribute it to it. It used to live on fire. Philanderer.
The gods changed its taste. It now lives on water and happy on the coldness of the pond where the moss and pebbles serve him company. Nature gifted it a house which is a punishment for its escapades.
Well, imagination is spacious. You see that? That one. Yes that one. It is endless.
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