TONGUES OF FIRE

Yawned the sun,

and so

it went off to sleep.

Currently,

my reflections

are wrinkled petals,

in this prelude of winter

that chisels on the soul the tedium vitae,

the cupio dissolvi,

desiderium habens disssolvi

et cum Christo esse.

What else to ask of this life of mine?

I don't know,

really.

I feel a great sense of bewilderment,

like a raft adrift.

Sometimes I have the feeling

that I have already crossed

this earthly dimension

and I strive to metabolize its

utter madness.

The anxiety of this planet assails me.

I beseech Thee, Heavenly Mother,

in this ordeal,

who knows, a catharsis,

could you grant me the gift of the antidote?

The frost,

tonight,

has frozen the soul

between monolithic ice floes

and you,

and you, my love,

here you are no longer

to radiate it with your warmth.

No more a nod,

no more a smile,

to feed the tongues of fire

that in those years

restlessly swayed.

In these vespertine shadows,

nostalgia exhumed

the anxiety that lay concealed

in the certainty of reliving.

Weeping drops fall

into the dream of return

and are lost in the Penumbra

that makes its way

in the manor house of the I.

Every moment that passes,

I storm

the sterility of my prose,

attempting to symmetrize

my mystical sphere

and exclusively

in the dimension of pain

I again run into myself.

And so,

without strength,

without will,

inert, I wait for the peal

of the vespers

of life,

of my life.

The stars catch me

among the silences of the mind,

in the dreaming that give way

to the first wanderings of dawn,

as I invoke you

With prayers streaked with melancholy,

and your face

in my mind,

it is a surge eating away an atoll.

I employ all my strength

to illuminate this pain of mine,

but in loneliness, I glimpse

the only existential dignity

and while macerating myself

in this poignant yearning,

I fear that the first rays of Apollo

are all too early.