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Yesterday I thought it was too late

I thought I was tardy.

Today it seems like yesterday went too early.

And tomorrow is delayed.

Meanwhile I see this gray hair

Growing resolute

Right in the middle of my head.

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Wind

Turning things

Moving time

Never rests

Just moves to another place

Taking my thoughts

Spreads them at large

No concerns

No regards

I am exposed

Wind uncovers me and everything

Licks my dreams

With silly ideas

Rearranging my insides

And lies next to me

As breeze

Singing a lullaby…


Censorship.


I had a garden

Now I am the censor of my flowers

I went around with scissors cutting all the dried leaves

Flowers that did not bloom

Or the ones who insisted on drooping

And took with them the colors that should have stayed

In this mismatched garden

Hay color

That crackles in my steps

The sound of dry

I go on with sharp scissors

For there is no place for quitting flowers

It’s important to free their souls from their

Dead roots…


The color of mourning

Is not black

It’s pale

Dry lips – twisted in sadness

Trembling hands

Cannot hold the pain

The color of mourning                                  

Dresses the soul

Of those who stay


Gray

The statues sit quiet

And observe the cemetery

Frozen – no pain, no feeling

Just gray

Cement on my death

On my mourning

Angels with hard wings

Saints, Jesus, and God

Watching over the fence

Deciding who goes or stays

Final and concrete

Unlike this garden of statues

Won’t go anywhere

Will stay and watch over the souls

Of the people who built them

Who come and cry

And death decorate

With real flowers

Or plastic ones

But the color is always

Gray…


The Great Spirit
is all and is
in us All
He tells us secrets of the unknown
but we – most of the times – don’t hear
He enclosed our happiness
in all He created
but we changed it to something we don’t know
and we keep inventing and reinventing
much wanted and not needed
stuff
If we went back to Nature
and recognized the sacred
The Great Spirit – God – would smile
His big thunderous smile
and would manifest in all that is happy
and make miracles so visible
that all men (and women) would drop their futilities
and unite with one another
and be gracious again


It’s almost midday

And it’s hard to see

The more light I have

The less I can see

For seeing is hiding in the dim light

Where details rest

I talk with the wind

This way I can be misunderstood

Or revealed – it depends on whom is listening

But it is nice to have my voice confused with air

Like whispers – sonorous

Trading secrets with the day that wants to mature

Into night

And then not see for the lack of light

But sense – the movement, the vibration

Of someone, or something,

That tries to become one

With the light


What do I know about God?

Nothing

except that God knows all about me

or maybe…

God spies on me when I sleep

and put dreams in me

and tells me the stories that should be told

when I follow that dream

or maybe…

God lets me be in my sleep

and watches me when I’m awake

but let me believe it is my doing

that keeps me going – sane or insane…

or maybe…

He is just changing channels

or playing with clouds

or is on a meeting with all angels and saints

about us – how to fix our disasters

how to go about so many petitions coming His way

or maybe…

God sits in silence

with eyes wide open – without rest

and doesn’t sleep

constant vigilance

He does tend to His flowers

But maybe – we became the weed…


It’s hot

And I can’t think straight

I can’t think at all – I think

I don’t want to be hot tempered

In this afternoon of drought

I know I have to worry

When I see crickets dead at my front door

As if they were going to ring the door bell and ask for water

Or sneak in

It’s hot – period

It shouldn’t be such a hot period

And that makes me worry

Like when I saw the disoriented snake

Who did not know if they were coming or going

And the birds looking for rain

I heard there is a High Pressure Dome

Like something I could touch and break

I could free the air

And let the rain in

To get everything wet

And make smoke on the ground – vapour from the heat

That is driving everyone insane

Turning life incendiary

It is hot

And I can’t think right – or left

The angels don’t want to burn their wings

That’s why we can’t lift this veil of heat…