In the looming night,
fantasies resemble burned branches.
It is November
and melancholy seals in the soul.
What more could I ask of life?
I feel like an old eagle
that can no longer beat its wings.
Under the skin,
I have gypsy chromosomes.
I try to run away
from an adverse fate
that veils the past.
I would like to re-embrace
those emerald shining years,
and strip them of missteps.
I would like to set
the mosaic of a new existence
with newborn pieces,
move forward,
march into the universe
of the most winged emotions.
I would like to sweeten the pain
in the ambrosia of dreams.
I hear sweet melodies,
who knows,
of opalescent billows.
They lull,
they carry breaths,
symphonies of Love,
apocalypses of truth.
The joy of a nightingale
makes its way
with a harmonious moan,
among the splinters of my heart.
Toutes les droites appartiennent à son auteur Il a été publié sur e-Stories.org par la demande de Mauro Montacchiesi.
Publié sur e-Stories.org sur 08.09.2014.
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