Stalking strangers earlier on,
new flesh soon joined, looking for admiration.
So far only two pictures on,
like a blank wall, eager for decoration.

Glimpses of Time swirl the Saturnian Wells
with shades bitter in darkness from the Man that in dwells.

Voxel-painter turned chisseler, sculpting all away
with the leftovers of excess, a scattered dismay.
The opposite of the stalked-stranger, accumulation
of estimuli and mind: a dense manifestation.

A bittersweet drink brings forth
a new bittersweet season.
Yet another leap has passed
in the long and round prison.

Shortest light on the year,
yet it is the brightest.

Burns in both hope and despair
with the sweet intermitent
mitigation of the clouds.

Split in halves,
chessboard floor manifests
far beyond the Sun:

Links flared,
Rechts cooled.

Isn’t it curious that
one half yearns
for what the other has,
but only when it’s so deep amiss?

Intertwined are the lights
in the sky,
but over-tangled shall be
the ones of the city;

The Illusion and purity of joy shall retreat,
leaving place to the disappointment of reality,
and the still silence of abandoned places.

There are things that shine
far more than others,
but that lie deep,
hidden behind dark shadows.

And so the brightness of perspective
can be turned around,
by the power of a twist,
just like the bitterness of the situation:
every season is a Myst.

AI-IA

I must retreat back
and descend into darkness
for three long nights
in order to renew my Strength.

A part of me will die
so that the other may live,
at least for a while.

Seven leaps around the burial mound
and three transformations of seasons
will also transmute my appearance,
to all but the eyes of my lover:

Thrice graceful in her shapes on heaven
are the manifestations of the Divine Queen.

And today, both as an eaglet and a lapwing
a part of me dies and the other is ressurrected,
by sweet delight of her absent kiss.

We shall fear what lies beyond the veil,
behind the fragrance of life unmanifested,
if we are not careful and cling
to vague manifestations that aren’t real.

But we shall triumph and conquer
if we trascend the senses and deceit
that keeps us crawling under dimlit heavens,
that by ignorance seem both cruel and great.

A veces me gusta afrontar las cosas
con la inocente perspectiva del pasado
hasta chocar con la horrible realidad,
la labor ante la cual no estoy preparado.

Cuando fantasía y memoria unen
fuerzas otra vez, revisión de lo pactado,
un nuevo proceso trae esperanza,
posibilidad de distinto resultado.

Es entonces cuando se muestra otra vez
con gran tamaño el error de lo labrado
y hay que empezar de nuevo otra vez:
en mi colección, nuevo acto fracasado.

Es más fácil mentir, vivir en engaño,
que darse cuenta de lo poco avanzado:
el largo trayecto lejos se proyecta
con su tenue luz, color de lo amargado.

No es de sorprender lo que pasa cerca
con aquel loco, de reflejo enmascarado,
que sufre y gruñe, planifica males:
está frustrado y por dentro muy cansado.

¿Es mejor no tocar esas cosas muertas?
Eso no lo sé (Perspectiva del Pasado)
pues con inocencia prefiero arriesgar
a ver otra vez aquel color amargado.

Wind and rain resound the distance
heavy ambience, gleam in dispair.
Inner chaos overlooked at a glance,
felt through struggle and need for air.

Days and nights gone by behind a screen,
hypnotized by lights, symbols and shapes
like we will, immersed in synthetic grass,
grasping for tools fit for cybernetic apes.

Cranial pressure due to things undone
and the constant, overwhelming noise,
is there a way around this?
A dimlit chance, now far and gone,
stubborn psyche and a fragile poise,
his incompetence only his.

Under poison or endless clicks
we find a small way to cope
an ignored reality that bends and ticks
while clinging to a dead hope;

by means of self deceit, slippery slope,
we keep adding weight to a heavy burden,
saying “yes” when the answer is “nope”,
wasting the bait in something to lure then.

Cold night, drops, full moon behind the clouds,
without guiding light we trip blindly and grope,
and lost we think and reflect, hearing sounds:
the mistake to shoot far without aim or scope.

At the gates of demise
there’s a rush or a delay,
and a consequent celebration,
for we can finally let go
or continue to hold on
to an ever-evolving dream.

Millimetric-plans aren’t always perfect.

No matter how careful,
nor how well played the execution,
things have a tendency to sway
and to lean on the unexpected,
the unnoticeable threat
that suddenly emerges,
but that was always there,
lurking, waiting, hiding.

In the aftermath only self-deceit
and menial consolation.
Mercyful self-patting on the back
trying to integrate the experience
acquired for future considerations;
but, sometimes so shattering,
the petty realization
that we rush to forget
or postpone to reflect,
strikes again from beneath,
coexisting with the so vast
ignored failures.

Patterns of repetition aren’t always endless.

At the crumbling edge,
where neither hope
nor will would suffice,
there’s a rushful delay
in the midst of the consecration,
oxymoron and paradox of fate,
for the distortion of time
is only a matter of perception,

just like the outcome,
continuous fruit of our deeds,
blooming or shrinking
in the ever-evolving stream,
of the things we desire
and of those unexpected.

In the end, what there applies
is how to play the game
without worrying about prize or consolation,
even at the gates of demise:
there can emerge new revelations.