Path to immortality
It is a path of broken glass that damages and cuts your wings spread to the wind, hurting your good feelings. Every day you pick up what you sow, your harvest is very good. Full of lotus flowers, your old golden wicker baskets.
And on the backs of winged white unicorns you ride, without rest. Meanwhile, sounds of old Tibetan bowls are heard in the background.
How the bowels of the earth roar, sorrowful and suffering! How the breeze blows on the ethereal summits of the distant Himalayas!
When you dream, rest your disconsolate fears and your eternally spoiled sleeplessness. Large lamps hang from your roof, numbed by the wind. Golden crystal lamps adorn your beautiful rooms, falling on your flowery bed of white roses. Bed asleep and captive. You wrap the flowers of your sad childhood with velvet blankets. And your lips, half-open to the heavens, pronounce your name at every moment, with fresh air and rebuff. But fear not, the storm is far away, whose rays burn the forests with enormous unbridled fury.
And your golden pen writes, with black ink, the deep sadness that seizes my strangest entrails. Do not allow the untouchables to humiliate you when they approach their fevered faces. You do not even consent to their nocturnal noises,
deafened and disheveled, in front of the golden doors of your ethereal dreams.
You hear white tunics, unfolded to the winds that are torn with sleeplessness. Between white tunics loneliness of cold walls, a last breath of life is extinguished. Winds that blow scaring your soul. And you ask yourself: Where is it? Where is my human dignity? Here nobody listens, I’m just a poet. It’s cold, the white tunics are coming. I hear sounds of rain, I hear the sea and the waves, but why does not anyone listen to the claim of my soul? I need a hug of love, a moment only, a word of encouragement that warms my soul. Between white robes, loneliness, my last breath of life escapes …; wanting to imagine a dream: the sea and the waves … the magic of eternal peace …
Anonymous poets recite verses sung with your blessed name Liberty. And your name is that mirror that escapes with blind fury, from the maternal womb of your humble human existence.
Under the full moon you sacrifice your eternal fears, to save humanity from its terrible sleeplessness. They attack with ruthless words your fragile estranged essence. They are feverish delusions of grandeur, those that await the blessed dawns, in the silent tides of your mysterious immortality.
Hang olive branches on the doors of your golden khayma. Branches that symbolize the peace of the Essene people. In the African dunes of the Sahara desert, Chaouen contemplates your mysteries from the height of the skies. Loving in troubled times is a prize spoiled by the gods of Olympus. It is a prize given by the gods in the eternal and sweet dawns.
You are the prey of the most certain confusion, and of the bloody despair, before the vile battle of your false human ambition. Excessive ambition that puts all your effort to splash your insides of vain envy. But do not abandon your people, nor your humble abode, when you feel that your soul is tarnished, with millions of tears of blood and lava. Remember past times where your fragile memory did not fail. Remember past times where the “nameless” governed your incessant dream thoughts.
And in your distress, you shouted with rage and anger from the four winds: I am free! I love the cold wind of your dreams!
And your brindle eyes, with nostalgia, remembered your most sacred history, in the eternal and sweet dawn. Protected by the people, by merchants of poems of your most sacred temple, in the strange dawns aged by time. Time of doubts and desires … Doubts, that assail the seas of desire, only gently caress the branches of your sleepless soul.
You are a warrior of peace in your imaginary books of goblins, princesses and white mermaids. Your story, banned by the “supreme court”, is a true love story, in a virtual and imaginary world, in Qumran.
The land you inhabit is immortal shelter, of white fairies and protective elves of enchanted forests. Go slowly on your silent cobblestone path. It is my message to you, it is my beloved offering of my accelerated heartbeat.
Alchemists and old troubadours come to your flowery bed, sleeping bed full of beautiful golden roses. They sing old songs of stanzas for the forgotten people. They sing sweet poems, with words of love, words. Strange books, revolutionaries, burn in the bonfire of the hatreds and resentments of history.
Tell me mother, if you do not miss the magical world and the mystery that appears at the edge of the threshold.
And your wings unfold like fans in your flight. Fly high through the worlds of Morpheus, that life is a dream nothing more. An eternal dream, revealed by instants and endless stories, in a stony walk. A mystery overcast and sundown by the transparent seas of Olympus.
And if you are the owner of your actions, do not get upset or get angry with who gave you the light, in this new deep and forbidden dawn. Think of yourself as a beautiful mother, embellished by the soft reflections of the full moon. You will always remain protected by the warriors of light, since it is their worthy condition after so much betrayal.
Do not forget your roots or your most forbidden history, that life is very short and rebels against so much human acrimony. He rebels against the most sacred winds, distrusting the wise advice; pure and innocent advice like old goldfinches.
And in my soul I keep those fragrant flowers of lilies, roses and tuberose. Those flowers that you forgot in the old trunk of my intimate memories and fixes. You forgot all the hardships I went through in your absence and in your forgetfulness; as well as the paths that plotted in your prolonged absence. Life prolonged by the fresh air of the high peaks, under the skies of Asia. Skies where great freedom is breathed in all its magnificence. You are the owner of my life, of all my brave melancholy. Melancholy lurking in the shadows of this huge desolate forest. Desolate by the fires of my soul and your soul. Fires that are embers of embers that do not go out. Embers that warm your fragile and forgotten memory. Forgotten in hidden labyrinths of ancient Mesopotamia. You are a mother all that I desire, all that I feel every day and every night.
Do not let them forget your goals and your achievements, your consecrated life in the books of history. You are faithful to the feeling of your Essene people. Contemplate the raging waves that break against the fragile sandstone of that immense beach.
In your immortality you will see the elusive snow leopard on the high peaks of your beloved Himalayas. You will share your gaze with my distressed and tremendously torn soul.
And I, at your brown and bare feet, will continue climbing with courage and inhospitable strength to reach your highest peak. Mother, all that I am is thanks to your tremendous love. You are my sweet friend and the mistress of my life. Every moment next to you is a gift from the gods of the universe. I love you here and now, in the eternal present, lily-rose of my dreams. Silver night love. Night, silver path towards absolute love, towards the ineffable gaze of the Immense.
Mma thlit gori, mother I love you, your sweet soul is my beautiful universe. Infinite thank you mother for the immense gift of life.