igne natura renovatur integra

Lo, the weed by the roadside,
Speechless, calculatingly cold,
Firmly rooted in time-worn soil;
Earth’s soldier lies in wait
Greedy to reclaim,
Once mankind’s time is spent,
What by right is Earth’s.

A Solipsistic Dream

Original en español: Un sueño solipsista

eyes half open;
I see you in the distance.
I come closer slowly;
still distant,
you wave at me with your hand;
still distant,
and I wave back at you at the same time.

you see me in the distance;
your eyes half open.
you come closer slowly,
still distant,
I wave at you with my hand;
still distant,
you wave back at me,
at the same time.

I know it because I see you with my eyes,
and you know it because you see me with yours.

I see you in my mind through my eyes,
which are mine since it’s through them I see.
and you see me in your mind through your eyes,
which are yours since through them you see.

but as we get closer I see that it’s my hand that you wave in the air;
and you realise that the hand with which I wave at you is yours.
and in my mind I see that the eyes with which you see me are my own;
and in your mind you see that the eyes with which I see you are your own.

because I am you,
and you are me;
because you exist in my mind,
or I exist in yours?

Machinations

what if we were trapped?
held captive by our reality;
incarcerated in the present.

y ¿si viviéramos sin recuerdos?
encerrados en un olvido continuo;
en la apatía del desinterés.

et, si on ne rêvait jamais?
en voyant le lendemain tout flou,
sans espoir pour l’avenir.

would it be worthwhile
to follow the stream adrift..?

¿valdría la pena
seguir el río sin manantial..?

vaudrait-il la peine
de suivre la rivière sans destination..?

To thine own mask be true

We’re all one swashing salty sea;
And we’re the but the world, when it ponders itself
And we’re one entity, of a million identities
Because no man will be twice born,
and yet—all who are born, are one.

Flowers for the aesthete

I.
Remembrances are the warmth that soaks the viscera,
while idle speculation ventilates the lungs
and beauty is the scarlet that rolls in the blood.

II.
Addicted to the whimsies and antics of Life, and dying by the day.
Death overtakes all that ventures to live, snatching the softness of flesh and the sweetness of voice, leaving only bones, calcified regrets– vestiges of grace.
But it is because his most favourite flowers will shrivel by tomorrow that they smell so sweet to him today.

III.
The aftertaste of melancholy will always linger over the aesthete, for his paintings are more human than he– who lived the lives of a thousand colorful portraits, but left his own frame unfilled.

The most raucous musical box

The host with a flourish bids everyone welcome
to the gaudy and grandiose banquet alfresco
that is Life when unmasked.
The crackers surrender their colorful prizes
as hanging piñatas hide garish surprises.
The band is cacophony chiming delightful,
the names on the place-cards all parody spelling.
The wine is served lukewarm and sour!

But if still you should want to attempt the endeavor
of deducing some order from turmoil so lively
Alas! Then you leave empty-handed.