THE GOD KRONOS

Yellowed,

the now-creased diary of the time,

cynically skims its

most rarefied,

most vivid,

unforgettable memories.

And meanwhile, the god Kronos,

with sharp burin streaks

the velvety,

young warps

of my former face.

Kronos engraves primordial graffiti,

adolescent,

immortal.

Graffiti that,

like fragrant synaesthesia,

from a shaded oblivion

embroider the soul.

And again,

tireless

the God Kronos,

inlays before my eyes,

rivulets,

now golden,

now auburn red,

and then turquoise,

in a pinwheel of emerald reflections,

like gravel beds,

of liquid,

incoercible emotions.

Graffiti,

prophets

of my already visible future

which will be eternal

of ephemeral,

of deep

of barely experienced emotions.

My thoughts linger

on all the humans of great culture

I have met,

on those, I have yet to meet.

And here's my book,

toward an embedded sundial,

and I can't help but wonder

what the true essence is,

the great value of time.

The anamnesis of you,

almost vibrating in a platonic hyperuranium,

it seems like a theurgy,

a divine image

in the realm of metaphysics,

where imagination swings

like a psychedelic compass

whose magnet is delirating.

It sounds like a metaphysical saxophone,

bewitched,

the cold breath of the vesper

yielding to mystical,

impenetrable darkness.

Longing for Love,

of remote warmth

lost in time,

makes its way into the heart.

It exalts a twilight melopoeia

that splits the mind.

And meanwhile,

a whisper of melancholy

becomes erratic,

solitary monad

of the universe.

Inherent in my heart is

a gypsy instinct.

I attempt to escape from an adverse fate

that at times obfuscates memories.

October is about to take its leave

and an early north wind

centrifuges the leaves and branches,

and with them

every impulse of life.

But the newly blossomed bud

remains mysteriously there,

perhaps to tell me

that life is born

or maybe it is reborn,

even in times of intense cold.

The soul drowns

in the opaque lake,

motionless,

of memories,

and relives nostalgia.

A gloomy yearning incurs,

that stiffens the heart

with the breath of ice,

and paints unthinkable,

alien,

the germ of a new existence.

The soul drowns

in the opaque lake,

motionless,

of memories,

and relives nostalgia.

A gloomy yearning incurs,

that stiffens the heart

with the breath of ice,

and paints unthinkable,

alien,

the germ of a new existence.

I let myself go to the polychromes

of a fantasy,

now calm,

now convulsive,

which, nevertheless,

suddenly,

are amplified among the meandering

of lightless moments.

Incessant vibrates

a jolt of Love in the heart.

And meanwhile,

with monolithic faith,

like ambrosia,

like philosopher's stone,

I yearn for the infinite.

The infinity of your Love.