The first Violet of thought approaches the remembrance and resonance of a storm.
Spend pain, I can’t break the filter of words. The rose waits for a hug that feels more, sinks its roots in search of its shroud of the sunny companion, a subterranean girdle, thin consolation, sighs of essence of herself and warm fustian in the early morning, she blindly dreams of hope and pain through its petals. Can this tiny bastion ever resist the oblique percussion, the tide of memory, beyond the flash of the gesture, of the ridiculous action?
All this is in the moment, we have nourished ourselves of our common pain. And with a plush step, our past. Our future is a distant dream, our present a delicate need.
Of being together gird our limed limbs, we ask only a moment of peaceful existence, so little it seems, but for us it is the world, and the deepest embrace.
The longed-for rest in this expanse of winter, the spring storm and the snowfall of August, the desert around, nothing more than the flap inside, covering our arms and awaking it, and finally showing us the dreamed path.
Heavy the air of spring, the eagle has forgotten how to fly, in human words searches its hovering, to stop its swooping on the edge. Surrounded by dry leaves his look, heavy wings, his cry is a far cry, and no one dared to confront himself in this madman to migrate, dream, fight.
No one to break it down in the descent, only the tawny kestrel follows him, regardless of the price, his eternal nativity scene.
The bird of prey broke its wings, in that swirling, but happy it was, as only a friend can do.
Not human, but feline, regardless of the price of his destiny, with all his love as a pilgrim traveler.
Lyds far from flying over this eternal journey.
A visionary and desperate diary of survival and search for home, friendship and be there, between reality and dream, with eyes half closed and bruised.