LIKE A WITHERED ROSE

Saturn soars into the air,

then it quickly nosedives,

accelerates,

then slows down,

but it is only Maya,

but it is only an illusion.

As an accomplished artist,

of palette and brush gifted,

The God Saturn paints new grooves,

it new arcana chisels,

in the prairies of the soul.

Saturn,

the God of time,

inlays, then on my face

a pleated scroll,

immortal,

vibrant with delusions just tasted.

Pindaric, alien abstractions,

they linger on a vintage shelf,

on dusty tomes,

even more vintage.

I had no time,

and I regret it,

to honor their nobility.

Here,

The ticking catches me

of a pendulum.

It, too, now, is

almost a withered rose.

I try to guess

how long,

still,

it can tick for me.

Your eyes

are mystical theurgy,

a timeless universe,

where wanders

what no longer is.

I imagine you,

I see you gliding

on icy reflexes

of an existential mistral.

It is sudden,

exciting miracle,

a new star being born.

The cold evening wind

hisses madly.

A worn-out yearning,

again, like a prism,

wedges itself into the mind

and releases a feeble melopoeia

in the rarefactions of the soul.

Meanwhile

a sigh of nostalgia

is eclipsed into nothingness.

I am an erratic monad,

I try to get away

from a bad Karman

that now

blurs

every reminiscence.

It is cold weather,

gusts of mistral

unhinge

the last gasps of my garden's hedge

and with them

the remaining reverberations of life.

The soul drowns

in the lake of memories.

Here is melancholy again,

here again, are the thorns

that tear

every breath of life.

I let myself go

on the wings of a gypsy chimera

that fades silently

in the rhythm

of lightless minutes.

And yet

throbs a wail of life

in the heart.

With joined hands,

with monolithic faith,

I yearn for the warmth of heaven.