LIKE NEMO ON THE NAUTILUS

The delirium of eventide

its winter colors

of gold and frost,

silently shows off.

Memories seem like

yellowed pages

of a crude winter almanac

that in the heart carves

the mistiest

damp melancholy.

Tonight, I see myself

as Nemo on the Nautilus,

misanthropic, eccentric explorer,

avenger of wrongs suffered,

in the presence of a mysterious island:

life,

his life!

Sometimes I have the impression

that I have already used up

all the days that one granted to me,

and I try to assimilate

all the acid rain from the sky.

The torment of humans

keeps me company

and becomes

my undisputed Lord.

I implore you,

my Heavenly Mother,

could you grant me

the divine virtue of endurance?

The bloom of an icy rose,

in this advancing twilight

has numbed the soul

in a cynical embrace,

and you,

and you, my Love,

are no longer there to inflame it.

The bloom of an icy rose,

in this advancing twilight

has numbed the soul

in a cynical embrace,

and you,

and you, my Love,

are no longer there to inflame it.

There is no longer the languid look,

there is no longer the fragrance

of your balmy breath

to intoxicate it,

to intoxicate that Love

that once, in the past,

of fierce,

young instinct,

lived.

In this dim light

that yields to the night,

I have resurrected in my heart

a latent torment

that only hoped

to return to the surface.

The cry,

diaphanous and lukewarm,

is a drift,

a poignant billow

of the end of the season,

and eclipses

among the shimmering,

gleaming crystals of Bohemia,

in the half-light

of the darkened room.

To the sound of unusual seconds,

I surround by siege

the bleak tundra of days,

in the utopia of creating a homeostasis

in my magical universe.

Where,

if not on the path of torment,

can I meet my authentic self again?

Unable to react,

I await divine judgment.

The streaked hues,

now dark

of the sky,

they amaze me,

in the stillness of fantasies,

in the dream that slowly

yields the proscenium

to the debut of the dawn.

I invoke you with gentle melancholy.

Thy face in the day that dawns,

is a mane of Apollo

that illuminates the seas

in the cradle of the East.