The song: the wind cooing the sun amid the green avenues of pine and of waves crashing against the isles of melancholy. The sight of your brows intoxicated on freedom and brine flying as dreams atop the teary-eyed sea and your ever changing white eyes as if larks leaving the green and blue for the moon’s silvery shadowy cliff.
In the night void of life from mountain to sea, I knit the words among your stars of hope and on the dew of the newfound spring. I walk rootless around the earth for another peek of my childhood land peopled with the echo of laughter and the sea of bleeding poppies.
The song lives and dies with the birth and demise of my memories and so I bequeath to you dark, sonorous lover, my dreams, which live in your hazel tree-eyes.
What a dream, what a land! Hidden grove of love, deep green stream of secrets. You with your little blue eyes lived on the moon and the crazy-eyed men were wading in the livid river of death! They had come with snared lips and dark hearts. They took our land and when I said no they pushed harder, mutilating every little flower including the thorny roses. They walked away with their sad perverted minds toward life, death, twisted happiness, hidden melancholiness. They didn’t find love in a field of flowers but in the metallic city of men. I discovered a white pure snow in you for my void. Where were you, Ariane, on which planet, on which mountain? Were you a figment of my gray mind? No, no you were the little blue bell that rung the solace in the appearing mirage.
In that instant, that little moment you became the fire that lit my life and you brought earth, air and water. I dug through the layers of dirt, of hellos and goodbyes to find your desolate amethyst cove. Your sweet songbird voice filled the air with lullabies. Your little dreamy mind lives among sweet clouds. Your winged soul flew through the sealed skies with its infinite love to exist among golden-eyed stars and an omniscient moon.
My world is empty for all I attained, felt, lived and died, in you. My dreams as birds perched on the cleft of your soul. My words crashed into your heart as derailed trains laden with broken hopes. The flowers of love grew in the water of your song; the salt of my tears coalesced into little crystals nestled on your oceanic lap.
My girl painted of pen and born of paper, with your deep pallor and padlock of solitude, left so seamlessly from our bed of love into the garden of glass beneath. You took, Ariane, the hidden light as candid as the lighthouse’s dream that lived in the gentle rose, which sealed your lips.
Cemetery of solitude, words still fly onto heaven’s gate and write themselves on the northern sky. Your whisper snows onto my sad smile, weighing it down into a frown. Perhaps only the butterfly leaves with her dreams intact, that the caterpillar-train of anguish becomes a kite of bliss.
Hungry ravenous lovers embrace each other by the pines. His bliss tastes the honey of her lips and her fantasy – the warm bread of his mouth. My sorrow as a great sea drowns the vessel of kisses. You are far, trembling among sad stars. Your green eyes above illuminate my forest of solace. You undermine spring, little carillon of a bluebell that penetrates the snow of oblivion and whose ringing brings ice-cast statues to life, when you live among nuptial dreams and forgotten souls. You, Ariane are not forgotten, living in the flowerbeds of my thoughts, a little butterfly on the tip of my tongue!
Everything that grew in your soul died in my heart, the intoxicated marigolds, the lap of fading topaz. Except, the trembling shadows that draw in letters of chalk, dark phrases, your cool soul guiding my warm hand and my silent voice. My voice that has no leaps and bounds travels through the cave of echoes, on the Via Dolorosa and the labyrinth of deep restlessness! The song that rises from my mouth into your large blue eyes as if fish into a deep ocean. I live in the cage of darkness and only music with its arrow can pierce your soul, your wildflower filled isle.
In the night void of life, which spreads from mountain to sea, I knit the words from your stars of hope and the dew of the newfound spring. I walk rootless around the earth for another peek of my childhood land peopled with the echo of laughter and the sea of withering poppies.
The song lives and dies with the birth and demise of my memories and so I bequeath, to you dark, sonorous lover, my dreams, which live in your hazel tree-eyes.
My dream is a butterfly in its coat of rain on the last night of autumn.
My love is a caterpillar in its jacket of dew on the first spring morning.