who sighs through the hollow spaces of time

light was tortured till it denied its colours
these roots are echoes of a silent voice without name
the wind seeks to unravel the knots of forgotten stories
who listens to the pulse beneath the silence
who dares to taste the corrosion of truth, the glow of feeling
the walls of the mind crumble into whispers of the unseen stories
we leap into the storm as if into rebirth
we trace our essence from one shadow to the other
let's unravel the fabric, step beyond the echo
a restless dawn bears the weight of tomorrow
who will…
fill the chambers of longing with the murmur of hopes
let poetry be no fugitive
confront chaos with the flame of awareness
we glimpse the world through fractured light
history repeats uncertainty, our fragile hands

who seeks to redeem the silence of wounds

your eyes incite such an echo on my lips
it reverberates every time I hear the trees, it engulfs my hands
I  feel how your gaze caresses my hair
sometimes only poems keep me whole
the hidden parts play hide and seek with daylight
all the me that cannot be create holes between words
I wait for time to confess its indifference
the solitude of skin is inborn but
poetry is this incessant birth of an imaginary me

I am eyewitness of charm, a skinwitness of wilderness, a heartwitness for pain. I wonder if you tear your bemused silences or am I stripping you of stillness. sometimes I am silent as a plastic plant, scattered like the vowels of a foreign language or whole as an apple. only the rustle of my hands is enchanted. you are  an impossible congruence  for a witness of the progression of tears.
You are searching for something, the hush of blood in the intimicy of the ear, an oceanic tempo, a steamy vertigo.  time is reaping my breath with some fascination. there is this feeling, a filling of one's body with  the magnitude of the other. this absorbtion.
I follow the rupture lines as much as I can. there is no filling from the outside, they wait to be inhabited by one's blood. I would offer my skin flambe, the memory of your skin feels like a cataclism of fingerprints

it's difficult to grasp the glory of madness
red carpets are deceiving but they match red ties
monochrome minds cast the shadow of empires
over our gluten free days
no wonder we are so allergic to silence, to steps shaped by loss
a thinking without thinking destroys the becoming of words
a tired public is trapped in the structure of hope,
the show  must go on
let's see if money speak louder than guns

a Proustian quest for original wonder gets illuminated among pine, olive, palm trees
the eye needs delicacy and moderation to grasp the breeze of thoughts
is it the soul or an architect of joy who blends the harmonies in a pointilist smile on my face
an atmospheric fluidity in my hands between land, sea and light

in the blindness of night darkness is a form of light falling into itself
there's so much to be seen but the eye has blue limits
I watch how I am pushed inside
by the centrifugal force of breathing
these women in me, known and unknown
they insist, whisper, shout, smile, dance, cry, they carres the echoes of shadows they want to tell me
what love is in the dreamed language of the blind
I say to them: no, you don't know
what love is
Yet

I couldn't dance with my eyes full of skin
Sometimes depth is synonym with pain
The ache of heart echoed the light of night
Luckily the moon was full of herself

Boats are roaming the shining, boats are sleeping in the port
Dreams are seafarers well contained in the electriciy of skin
Fishermen talk to me
I talk to you with invisible words
"Au revoir madame with beau chapeau"
Time is an artist in the randomness of breath

"C'est tres beau", says a little boy to me
We are smiling together at the sunset
It's the first time he sees it in the train, he confides in me
Innocent tears spin through my heart
Words cross boundaries when they feel what they see