Memories
Our love mixes with seaweed,
a sweet memory,
sprinkled with salt. It grows
between the breeze
and the hurricane,
the fruit of an inner struggle.
The green waves crash
in a murmur that
cools the warm and
ancient sand; limits; perception.
New tides of change
cast our minds back;
the courage to exist.
In the space between
ancientness and nowness,
our perfect love is eternal,
a song for a dance,
an invisible one, and
a wave-like movement
on the shores of our hearts.
We can feel our holy angels,
wounded wings,
echoes of a distant cry.
In every salty breath, a prayer
and a promise.
Between freedom and serfdom,
we fathom our dodecahedral geodesic,
spiritual sphere out.
The reality is circumjacent;
contiguous eyesight.
The voice of God becomes an echo
to inhabit the twilight world.
Mirrored Nonet for Flamenco Dance
A juerga with flamenco guitars
with fire flames blooming like flowers,
folks dancing in the moonlight
the dance of wounded souls,
vibrant red dresses,
white shirts like birds,
falling shawls,
dancers,
sky,
claps,
cubic
movements of
color, music's
seeds, hands being wings,
shadows on the white wall,
from soul detaching passion,
lights, motion vibrating the strings,
resonance for a new dimension.
Complains about the Wind
The biting wind dances with
the flickering flame,
in a frigid rain
with tears that numb
the tender buds before they awaken.
With fervent gusts, the wind exhales softly,
caressing the timeless, cool grass,
in a sunless decline,
increasingly stirring the strife
of the garden's tale.
His veiled torment
always descends from the hilltop, while
he unravels his lips, his mouth,
that kind of mouth
resembling a cavern where echoes reside.
His sorrow flows,
untangling words that nobody knows
like those prayers to the void.
Swaying his visage with the willow trees,
he wildly rides the swelling clouds,
belting out his tempestuous,
thunderous songs,
striving to voice his selfish desires,
his dreams, and
the fleeting chances of tomorrow.
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