suspended

Sweet moon

cuddle me gently in your light tonight;

may your petals fall on the shivering lake

and be a pillow for my troubled eyes;

may the scents of the sleeping flowers

give a shelter to my exhaled fears. 

The day has come to its end

and i draw on the stars the resolution

of gestures i left hanging on shiny threads

for a breath to cool me down from the heat,

that now are clustered with insecurities

on the fruits bent in their worshiping 

awaiting for the ripeness of birds songs.

I know that tomorrow the sun will rise again

and its harlequin rays will lift up your veil

that covers all that surrounds me with whispers

of leaflage mimicking the absent wings of the dove.

Tomorrow colours will crowd with different voices

the blue halo that gives building their prayed rest

and nothing will hold the reward i dreamed to find

in the eyes of friends awakening from your womb

to greet me with the scream of the betrayed slumber.

Nothing that holds a shadow will seem to be reliable

torn out from the communion of crimson haze

that knits all that breaths with the aim of your lullaby;

i will meet in the black that all colours smears

the failures pointing to the extremities of my dreams

and i will hide in the blind thirst that i have inside

to merge with the directions that the sun erodes

remembering again the dew that envelopes your song.

Will the world that now reflects your touch

hold against the hammering of the heated air?

for i feel a fever growling inside my veins

that will not sustain the knavery of the sun

the ghosts that inform the lullaby of the shrubs

will bear no comfort under the steaming day

and the missed promises that the soil whispers

will make their departure too real to be sustained

and i will explode with no art among the begging eyes

 of people shivering to shake off their boredom.

What i am is an echoes of your maternal voice

that in this engulfing path burst with whispers

into the life of a yawn frozen in its endless possibility

and embraces me in the unconscious offering of love

for a time before the day revealed that all achievement

come to the loss of the light in the fireflies alphabet. 

I am addicted to your kisses, 

to their promises of covering with crystal kindness

the grass subdued by the sacrifice of the slug's tears

and spider legs knitting the sermon of dug graves;

to the flakes of your arching lips

i rise my prayer for the belladonna nectar

that will dumb my senses in still sleep

for reaching the fading of your embrace

with waxed limbs unable to feel our goodbye.