The calmness of the night blankets
my cold un-pearl like body-
with its earlobes embracing my thoughts
as I whisper them to myself-
and they echo to me like they were feathers
of light transgressing
two opposite mirrors-
each thought thinking of itself each thought thinking of itself
as a mere reflection as a mere reflection
and they drown and they drown
in the arid multiplication in the arid multiplication
of themselves of themselves
or a self beneath a shell of silver and glass
until they find their fluid hands and skin floating
inside a fruit or a womb, the dark universe
warmed by the simple existence of the knowledge
of its existence,
waiting to be born.
So all these celestial beings are
probably my siblings- the bright, dark, cloudy, the distant,
and probably the eternal too,
the little holes in the sky, the same
we pressed with names, hushes and dreams-
and even the torches in the city we mistake for stars
�all parts of a self drowning in a silver glass
and dark wine
as I am waiting to be born.
Meanwhile, the calmness of the night
blankets my cold un-pearl-like body.
He picked up a tiny cup
that said ricoa
on the window, then
he sat on the floor,
choosing the part where
the umbra of the shadows lay.
She didn�t notice him.
�faint, short, quiet, rains
don�t come easy these days,� he
said, smoking a cigarette while she read on.
tempest( a study)
When to tempests my soul is brought to light
and weighed for its truth, sins, and the silence
beneath its shaky frame, against their height,
I stare deeply into their presences,
and help not but ask why judge a poor soul
whose purpose is unknown; so I tell them:
True, of all sins silence is beyond old,
nay, consuming above else of contempt;
but what is a soul consumed for nothing,
a candle spared for the end of the night?
So I hold this heart, taming its beating
and this soul still so I may hear despite
them, the throb of a heart lest I so blessed
be staring at she who stares at tempests.
the rain pours as if it knew
what it was falling to.
perhaps it does- with great precision
and detail, every texture, color, form-
it knew too well
that it can close its eyes
and stretch its hands to reach it;
or perhaps it was just guessing
and with uncertainty behind its mind,
it stretches its arms wide
to cover the distance of
possibilities to leave itself
no room to err;
or perhaps it truly is blind,
weak, and deaf that it knows
nothing but its hands open
to receive a wound, and its body
vulnerable to thorns and the picket
lines it is about to meet.
perhaps, when all is said
about the rain,
the only fastened fact
is that it poured
(with all that it has)
with all that it is, thus
becoming all that it could be.
