This Sunday’s quietude clears the space The sky’s light burns every scam in mind (waiting for anything, in limbo states, desires, expectations, stupid plans, a chain of words that paves reality) A green-white-golden peace Fills the air that I breathe. This Sunday’s spotless sky Reminds me of a mountain, The clear encompassing vision
Categorie: Poems
A candle a language of light and of fire (a sign that marked our birth) stamping our life with the cold of weird loneliness. This weird feeling makes no sense for people of the signs of fire, though it might be the essence of the fire consuming everything till, dry and grey, the ashes lightly
Tuberose Let’s call it the platform of love I entered life from. (Not quite poetic, you know?) Let’s call it the tarmac for the soul, a kind of white and yellowish context for the experience of life. (What kind of poetry do you see in these substantial associations?) Since then, I’ve always searched the perfect
Worlds of Words 