Involuntary poem written for the Winter
The beauty of the moment, the second that awakes
in consciousness a terror never premeditated,
a kind of blue that precedes the maximum excitation
and irrepressible snatches the senses.
Winter: final: Spring.
Avoided concatenation in the wind, if steady hands fail to mend it,
to tie it down to the world,
to make a poem out of it.
The beauty of Now, the terror of Tomorrow,
the long waiting,
the shine of a water silence when it trembles,
the remarkable fall of glances at that one place
where flowers and animals desperately hold the same rhythm.
Words, yes, maybe,
but also promises, advances, secret prayers,
plethoric ideas of shedding love,
undisputed beauty, at last,