Midnight Craze

under a bright moon,
man uttered a voiceless thought
—Silence answered back.

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.

tempus fugit

Time flees mortal hands,
rapidly slipping away;
just like grains of sand.

se escapa el tiempo,
como granos de arena
entre los dedos.

le temps s’envole
doucement entre les doigts
—sables du désert.