To the Whispers of Zephyr.

There is someone out there
who reads all my poems
and
she is every audience I need.
From her eyes
all the epigrams of my soul
are phonated.

Her eyes quietly alchemise my words
to the encirclements of pure gold.
It is for her that every veil of my soul opens in words,
like the flower on the shoots
of stimulating hands!

She is riveted by my words,
as I am spellbound by her brown flames
in the fireplace of coppices imagination,
raining fireworks on my feeling,
flooding my chalice
with copper and molten dawns,;
wordlessly pouring my mould with silence.

It is in the poise of her breast
that the syllables of my rhyme
are scaled.

I hang my wounds
On the silent spaces between the lines of her chest,
the sky
between the laundry ropes!

She adores them not because they are good
but because there are mine,
not because they are mine,
because they are the common denominator
of every heartbeat,
the flag of spectrums
in the stem of forlorn forgotten blooms!
lost in the wilderness of this world,
hidden amongst common weeds.

She namelessly, like a dazzling fish,
in her scales and spangles,
allures and whirls in the aquarium of my sweat and blood,
amongst the ornamental castles and shells of my verses.

She anticipates all my verbs,
for they are common senses
for they are coils combed by the fingers of her caresses,
harshness, burnished,
by the sandstone of her care!

She declares each word
like the petal
She surrenders them
to the whispers of zephyrs.