Hawks towards Asid Amllal
Tell me mother: Why your heart cries with sorrow, if laughter escapes from your lips between sweet tears? Tell me mother: Why does your soul wear black djellaba, if the snow covers with your white flakes your fragile existence? In any case, the whiteness of the snow will permute the sorrows of your soul eternally asleep.
The new moon hides, among sweet slight sighs, a blue mantle of brilliant velvet. Mantle replete with millions of shooting stars, in the cosmic universe shining. Under the snowflakes, the blue moon makes a nod to your soul, and it sighs, between poetic odes to the gods. Sighing is your brave soul, along with coral and silver reefs. Meanwhile, the snow melts, with the radiance and the extreme heat of your burning body. Your body is hot, between white lilies and jasmine. Lilies-roses bloom in the secret garden of eternal lovers. Eternal lovers, twin souls in love. Lovers who idolize the pure and white wings. Wings of your soul frailly agitated. Agitated by the north winds. Winds, which enrage millennial poplars, towards the immense celestial ceiling.
Ballads and sung verses are poetic odes in your sweet name and pronoun. Name that sighs at dawn, between beautiful northern lights. Name and pronoun pursue, unselfishly, your weeping and sweet breaking of princess in love. Tell me mother: Why do you cry when you laugh? Why do you hate when you love? These are doubts that torment and afflict my poor soul. They are doubts that sadden my sweet and eternal abode. Immortal dwelling, blooming bed, where your snow-white mantle lies dormant. Mantle that softly covers my tender heart in love. Heart in love, waiting for the moment, more bitter, where the most inert death lady lurks. The most inert death lady lurks among thin black curtains, in the sinister darkness of the night. That night that happens and suffers, that night where your dreams get drunk with sweet perfumes of thyme and wild rosemary. That night where the spells enchant the most perfect senses. That night of strange loneliness in the desert. That night of seas of silver, of your sea of silver and mine. Mother, that magical night in the southern desert where songs of freedom are heard, in time to the breeze and the wind. That deep night, full of broken silences and silent sublime moments, in the slow passage of time, of your time, which is my eternal time.
Mother, I would like to know how your captive dreams are. I would like to know what your dream world is like. I would like to know if that world is full of snow-capped mountains, sacred monasteries, sounds of mantras and echoes of distant paradises. I would like to know if in your dream world there are winged unicorns, golden nymphs and sacred kingdoms. I would like to know if in your Morfeo world you write poetry at dawn, if you break the walls and borders of human slavery. Mother I would like to know if your wild essence, of exalted tigress, travels through the arid African savannah, while your warm body lies in that bed, repose of your most sincere oblivion. I would like to hear from you so many things that I still do not know! There are not enough watches in the world, that I know, to house the lost time! Time I would like to be with you, in your warm arms, shelter from storms and hurricanes! Hot are my fragile butterfly wings captive. By throwing flames of fire and burning embers, my soul lies dormant.
I keep alive the flame of hope to embrace each new dawn, in each cold dawn. Your lips, sweet vanilla, move slowly. And you whisper to me in a brief moment, between silent silences, some beautiful words, some subtle sounds to the soul. Words that make my pretty silver garden bloom. Magical silver garden! Beautiful garden, cultivated with love in lands of orange blossoms, under the gray skies, under the tenuous shades of bitter orange trees. Silver garden between white pearl necklaces, between sources of clear water. Silver garden between castles and lakes, among sunflowers blind by the rising sun. Your infinite calm demands only a proclamation, that we both be peregrine falcons in this immense silver garden. Gray hawks traveling together, in ethereal dreams, even with thought and soul, beyond this dry and barren land, beyond our strength at dawn. Gray hawks flying together, above the dunes, terracotta color, of the Judean desert. Hawks towards Asid Amllal like white clouds, like waves of the sea, like transparent crystal oceans. Falcons flying over this immense silver garden, in the magical kingdom of Shambhala…
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