The mare of sorrow,
she drinks from the well
of her own tears.
Open the windows,
let the fountains of wind
unfurl across the sails
of your breast.
Let this drizzle swell
into a flood of blue infinities.
Let clouds pour their rain,
let colors awaken
beneath the beaks of flowers,
till the hidden wounds of earth
begin to sing.
Look
the roads burn with molten gold,
and flight,
in the axis of blazing love,
kindles from the candle of the sun.
Look,
the earth, overflowing
with the need to need,
the need to love,
ripens in nectar,
in desire.
From the pyres of its gardens
it rises in flame,
illumined,
a chandelier
of heaven’s sapphires.
Look,
the branches bow in prayer,
pouring themselves down
like waterfalls of color.
Rainbows spill
on the eternal loom
of butterfly wings,
and the pigments of a child’s paint box
swing once more
from the branches of time.
Look
the green skin of the earth
burns under the wind’s caress.
The needle-sun
draws from tulip veins
a flood of crimson grace.
Look
the red flowers ascend,
raising flags of freshness
through thorn-ladders of their stems.
Each wound a rung,
each scar a psalm.
And this tree,
branch by branch,
to its final buds of longing,
to its last sparks of devotion.
reaches for the sun within.
::
Open the window.
Let these clouds,
these lucid drops of sorrow,
flow into the blue eternity of the sea.
Let your wings remember flight,
the hawk’s gaze piercing
beyond the cage,
beyond the dead rope
of habit,
coiled like a withered snake
around the unopened heart
of this scroll.
