BLENDED IN THE HOURS
From the place where the abrupt sound of the loica ventures
(1)
the evanescence of your future breath appears
among the vegetation that hides your name
and the blue and gray stones of the primal mystery
there I will drink from the mist that shouts the perpendicular miracle
the only reason at all
that moistens the vegetal belly of the beloved
and shines the incessant desire.
How long does the star take to announce your coming?
or there will be no signs in this already long life of chordates
(2)
while the empty horn waits for its winds
and the opaque flame of sleep leans into oblivion
(1) Signature and unpredictable bird before being (A) bird
in the light areas that are shaken by the wind
mythical and loving red that drew a smile on a child
to open the celestial fields of my pupil
that stirred my early neurotransmitters
before the new cycle (B)
(A) Before being
Before discriminating the gray hours from the clear ones
I inhabited the only and always proud clarity of my imaginary friend
(B) New cycle
My lymph is rocked by the wind
in a theater of new opportunities
those that favor the sweetness of the coots of sober stride
mating in the repetition of miracles
so that the aromas perpetuate my arcane name
and the wandering clouds welcome their polar persistence.
I had the option of ascending to lightning by the cosmic warp
where perhaps the root of the word would have questioned
in coming times of etheric colors
where time would have curved for your eyes
and I would raise your elusive silhouette that lies in the angle of a sunset
irretrievably withers the thaumaturgical vowel (B1)
as simple as a smile
or the collapse of a galaxy
since everything is corresponding
and apparent
with its prodigious lightness (B2)
Like a breath from the forest.
TRAVEL
I went down to the inside of your belly
caressing the rafters of your cosmic cloud
the one that received me with the aroma of the sacred bulbs.
There you were the clear love of wood
and the vegetal wisdom that embraces the ancient verb
when the wind ceases its journey on the shoulders
of the floral liturgy
How many skies inhabit your seed that furrows the seer’s eye?
Is there a niche of smoke that hides your salty voice?
Or simply the root of everything has its home in that mystery.
Each step collects behind you, the daffodils
that inevitably lose your mark
the one that wanders in the deep sands
that in the empire of shadows shelters you.
The messenger has a singular noise
I’ll feel it that dreadful day
I will know then that the epitaphs for the sepulcher arrive,
where nothing else needs to be done,
the metal swallows are an illusory replacement,
since the truths remained in the lock,
and blind to certainties,
I only rest for a few moments
to give me strength in the pilgrim sea,
the one who confuses the epistolary tides
and enjoys seemingly innocuous sacrifices.
I will kiss your lips according to the prophecy
while the breeze will speak the unfinished language
And you will see me with your green eyes
that are not green
are brown
But when you laugh they turn green
and you can draw a different morning
with an approximate solstice
with snakes in the window,
so my useless life becomes useful
because I’m a hobo of solar systems
and I become a wanderer in your body,
as a geographer of your corpse altar
and intruder in your zodiac cenith.
At this moment the end of the thread
talk about the miracle of one day
unrepeatable and mild luck
How strange of an eclipse
under the brief abyssal tides
like ghostly cardamoms approaching
in the deserts of disease
appealing to the late corrections
as it did for millions of years
moss persistence with its epicness
selecting the right humidity
with your organic and fruity hug
in that I put my hope
in what you find in front of your eyes
because I am the one who reads in the borrascas
as I advance toward your directions
who fires violent canines
before those who offend you
to heal that sadness
that leaves the middle of the night when you slip
inevitably and persistently beneath
out the door.
Chandelier in the mornings
this useless armor
And the leaves are blank
soaking up her violently dance
they burn in front of the cabinets of dubious origin.
I hear the birds giving birth to the woods, in the upper angles of a nebula.
At this moment the end of the thread
talk about the miracle of one day
unrepeatable and mild luck
How strange of an eclipse
under the brief abyssal tides
like ghostly cardamoms approaching
in the deserts of disease
appealing to the late corrections
as it did for millions of years
moss persistence with its epicness
selecting the right humidity
with your organic and fruity hug
in that I put my hope
in what you find in front of your eyes
because I am the one who reads in the borrascas
as I advance toward your directions
who fires violent canines
before those who offend you
to heal that sadness
that leaves the middle of the night when you slip
inevitably and persistently beneath
out the door.
written and Illustrated by ©Enrique De Santiago
.
Featured Image: “Beyond the visible world is the non-Euclidean horizon for the dragonfly” acrylic and ink on 250 gm Fabriano paper by Enrique De Santiago