These ceaseless tides crashing from the mornings and nights

erodes the rocks of our egos.

The strolling torments

stalls into a garden of quietness

sitting at the very source

from where all things awaken.

Humming words

approved by luminous silences

speaks fragrantly to the noses of our thoughts.

What the carressing breeze writes voluptously in our souls

are only  these roses murmuring,
These roses

growing  from the lamps of our meditations.

My pen revisits

the obscure swamps, the precipices

where the craftsmen of light

pound within the furnaces of our souls

throwing sparks

to forge

an universe for our being.

And

all that i write is already written

by the goldeness of fleeting stars.

i translate
these elevations

held in glorious ephemeral instances.

The self kneels on a carpet of light
to kiss the face of love.

Know this then,
Your entire self

is an unfolding poem

raining

against a quiet heaven of light.

Like sheaves of wheat they sway

gracefully in gratitude
to the songs of their own being