The Egg

Its middle star, the sun, its outer edge, polishing planets in an eclipse, the yoke genesis, the albumen of a brownian sea of wishes. The figure standing in the center that is all life, standing opposite of the little we know of death. This symbol defies time, being its own beginning and end, containing rebirth in its very name, perpetual transformation giving off vitality, ever-changing it evolves and avoids ever having to cease. All hues in its chest are complementary, wings carry the motion always upward, and it can resemble a circle or a triangle or the shifting spiral. The egg has perhaps the meaning of all wonderings, and thus all magic known and unknown is there, waiting to emerge.

Minutes

‘Minutes’ is a term that may define a dish best served at the beginning of a feast among friends, or it may refer to an un-natural constructed concept of time, that man has set as guardian and thief of his otherwise magical lifetime. ‘Minutes’ serves as a focused form of expression, of a small, frozen, fragile and delicate world, of a slice of time, a basic symbol of feelings, contained in the geometrical form of its nature. Each piece of the ‘Minutes’ series has an inherent message in its very form, a sober, clean depth of black space, sprinkled from time to time with the passing of water drop stars. One can travel from the singularity of a space ring which catches flight in its bounds, with an ancient shuttle or an ark, to different micro environments, worlds of a more simple or elaborate arrangement. One can look in the blue and red glow of mirrors, can aim for the sky with the personas of fresh snowdrops and one can grow reflections to the right and the left side of the corona of the tree of life. A passer-by will be able to look with either blue or golden eyes, towards a crystal castle growing under the night sky, see Orion rising or spend a night under the white galaxies or be reduced to silence gazing at the stars of first magnitude that keep punctuating the celestial sphere.

Sun embrace

I believe you must hold your breath and then release it slowly and enjoy the day and warm up the core of your nerves and teeth and muscles and eyeballs, I believe you should slowly rock from side to side, resembling a tree that is free in the softness of the wind.

I believe we are a small fragment of the shining day star, a figment of its glowing image. The sun made us up, it invented us, and it colors the sky blue each day for our sake.

Perhaps it would be best to have long polar nights, so we could wholly appreciate and live, at the sunrise that will issue at the end of those black times. The dawn would be long, building up our enthusiasm and desires; and we would look at all the treasures above and below the soil’s crust, and more precious it would seem, even a grain of sand more golden that remembered in the darkness long, even a leaf now made translucent, and more over the face of the other, smiling in the full bloom of the sun rays, as it never did under the gaze of any of our small, own human candles.

Close the eyes now and turn towards the sun and find the world bluer and crisper when you open them, be rested in the light bringer of spring.

I believe people have forgotten the sun and do not even use it as a measurer of time or season, they have forgotten it though it lights their faces and blinds their eyes, and yet are fearful to stare in its heart.

I believe that most people have forgotten the sun, because they do not look into the sky any longer. Though some of them bring it back from time to time.

Mirrored Star

When I started on my way, the mirror trod on by my steps was clean and endless, going out far.
When I began walking, I saw a bright star in the sky, guiding me through forests and cities, reflected below.
When I started to wonder, I ended wandering over all reaches of my eyes, stretching above all that the souls of my feet could touch,
Gathering up all the diamonds found shining in the eyes of other wanderers.
When I started on this road, my dreams were a burning reflection in my soul, and every beginning held both the despair of youth and the belief of an old one.
And now, that I have walked on the path and nearly lost it,
And now, that I have tasted doubt beyond all doubt, and perhaps lost some of the mirror’s clean horizon edge, and gathered a bit of dust on my heals
And troubled the air and water in my wake and my restlessness,
Now I can only say this:

Cleanse the soul
And the desert shall bloom
Beneath your feet.

Space  Wood

Almost all the travelers, caught without awareness, have departed. The dusty corridors are aloof and empty, only echoes still linger in the corners of the cabins and down the circular ceiling of the gathering places. The command centers have long died down and perhaps one last stow-away was left daydreaming in his bed or around one of the desolate fish tanks. There are still pale lights showing contours, water dripping, some sheet of metal creaking someplace, but away went the teaming of life. Outside those long, corroded space vehicles, with crust eaten conscientiously by time, there is only the absence of sound, as their stretched, almost endlessly curved trajectory unravels.

From afar, they are crystallized wood, preserved forever in infinite wandering, and from even farther away, they are moving water drops trickling to and fro on a celestial blanket. Stars bloom around them and wave stellar wind as a salute and harsh shadows come and play upon their bodies.

Wooden Castle

My pride and resilience urge me forward, I am barked at by dogs that fear the light on my forehead, I am in such haste, that I keep bumbling forth into the tall grasses and the multitude of summer wild flowers and can not find what I seek.

I need more pale, violet-blue rounded flower bush petals, for the consistency of my wooden castle's sky, I have let the sun to set with too few flowers in my keep. All my flowers are fragile, the violets of white-violet shades, the gillyflower of violet blue and cyan sky and yellow, and most of all, the queens of star blue, which need the heat and light I supply them by myself in the absence of the sun, to be fooled into opening their faces , reluctant and shy. Their blue is the heart of deep sky and dark waters combined and I need them to signal and cover the top line of the sky dome.

Yet, I have made it to the gates of home, patched up the sky that lay on the floor of my room and brought the much needed color of life to the castle rising to the left pf the yellow twin suns. I was in the nick of time, as the orange star was just setting towards its base.

Enlightened Island

The Power to create a new world, full of complexity, though it be still part of the master environment we already find around us and which we are still exploring and experimenting with and being amazed by, is in each of us. I believe that, after you are reduced to silence by the heavy glittering of the encompassing stars and you start to hint at the meaning of this very fact, in your own feeble and exclusive human way, you may find that one of the ways to start getting back at gazing at that vastness is to create small worlds of your own design that match all that is created large, resembles it, but can bring amazement in the guise of the novelty of the counterparts and the new expression of patterns found in the macrocosm, now transferred to a micro setting. The micro environment that expresses the macro world is just another way of shifting meaning inside the boundless yet settled model pf the fractal pattern. By speculating on some basic attributes and material proprieties of the small, one is able to make a convincing image of the large. Furthermore, as an evolutionary step, you may convert the small world turned big, into self contained symbols of a mystical or an even perhaps ideogram type nature.

I believe that the satisfaction of creating and, better said, playing with your own environments, though inside the bounds of your self, personality and culture, exceeds the imagery that is mostly based on a technical replication of the outside world, as perceived by the senses. Though you are not creating worlds even a fraction as high and vast and free of limits and rationality as the stars you moved your gaze from when you first started, you are able to utter sparks and light up some faces sitting in the dark.

Spiral in the night

Though you are a thief, you can not steal the beauty of the mountains.
Though it is easier for you to run, you do know you carry death on your shoulder.
Though you can only whisper, the ones that will and the ones who should, shall listen.

Thus, I will tell you of what you are stealing from yourself. I am going to remind you of this continuum. A thief in my own right, I wish I had the power and the means to place some of your own time under arrest and leave you to rest for the indefinite while. If heart-beats had no meaning in the measurement of time, I would hide your body from the warm sun rays, so that your essence would fly away towards the light, brilliant as a precious stone after all the ravages of time have been drained and fled.

I wish I could impart to you that, all that is of the spiral, either moves towards or away from the source, though the spiral contains no end.

Oh, I wish I were the thief of all thieves, and could teach you of honor.

Aiming for the sky

We can barely keep our feet on the ground. Our will to fly burns so passionately, in a steady crescendo, we keep on stumbling, in our hasty speed, to reach lift-off velocity. Or we may stand in one single spot, feet in a firm contact with the ground, building up energy in the leg muscles and in the fiber of our being, leaving thought far behind. Some of us try this by themselves, some clasp hands in passing, start rotating, begin a joyful whirling motion towards the sky.

One thing joins us, it is not fear of not flying, not it is the fear to fly; we are all pure will, aiming for the clouds in the sky.

Water Dance

If you could look through your hands, if your whole body were watery clear, set forth on an endless pool, how would you dance to the song?

You, who are so light to be carried by the wind, seeds gathered in dance, set your many feet on the water's lip, dance in sudden joy, glide into the middle of stillness, hang on to the edge and rest.

You, who are so fragile that it is hard not to be carried away, stand still, so that the light that shines so briefly and from very far away, may reflect you as you are.

If you could feel that the breath in your chest is lighter than air, if you could feel an always impending desire to travel anew, what would you say to your friends and to the sky, before being taken away into flight?

I, for one, would leave everything in that moment reflected in my eyes, as it is.

The glittering sleeper

They tell me I am found in the glittering dust of all miracles, but have not managed to overcome death. They tell me heaven is not enough for the ones like me, they keep building stories of the heart of mystery. They keep saying I do not remember how I have always stood in the place I now stand, in another dream-life of my own choosing. Perhaps I was never born, perhaps I will become forgetfulness. I can see the fluttering of endless wing pairs, inside the stone that bares me. The shell its self is made of music, keeping in all flight. The shape of my being is a separation from darkness, one clean cut line of vibrating light. I burn with every ending dream, come forth in each budding field of hope. They tell me I am the beacon glittering on the hill, encouraging all travelers to pursue endless dreams, they say a tree shall grow from beneath my roots, that stand for the sky of belief. They tell me I have long ended all wars and healed all pain, they tell me that I can not be remembered, yet I have set everyone free.

And so comes morning and better yet, come night, a joy to fight and burn one's inner light, a wish to live all, that has not been lived, to die another death and carry on and on, to lay again, to all avail, in the glittering dust of all miracles, spread forth in flight, and dream.

Autumn Glade

It was a clear day that watched over our journey, we were at about half way through and, after many days of adventuring through the beautifully ripe tall autumn grass, we took a bit of rest along a cup of solace for thirsty travelers, such as we surely were.

And as we lay in the dusky, amber shadows of the noon sun, and a quiet wind began to shuffle by, we saw that the sky was intense blue, as out of a new born vision of a child, kept clean  of any stray clouds, open to infinity, un-oppressing in the heat of day. We took a long and well deserved rest, surrounded by grasshopper voices, before reaching back for the rusty path.

Underwater Realm

Come and join us in our hiding places. Come swim with us, unhindered by cardinal directions, forgotten are the ups and downs of life and space. Come with us, our cities are life overflowing, our laws are harsh, clean and direct, our colors different and very many and our voices silent. Join us, there is light still enough, here, deep underwater, there is always one more place still unexplored, another pearl will always be unfound and safe. You are almost as free as a bird in flight, safer and with equal grace, moving among our kind.

We have but one limit, that of our own high ground, the deep sky of our realm -  the water surface that few breach, in play or by necessity, but none can live beyond its limits. It bounds us here and holds out all stories of any other worlds, only some rumors have leaked in, in time, and told us how it seems that, long ago, some of our own broke through and changed themselves into something new.

Spirit Tree& Sunbathe Shelter

I knew I had to go alone, I've known before that tragically, after some point, I have to stand by my self in the light that is too bright, leave them be in the shelter of some trees further down, spreading seeds in the wind. I knew I had to make a speech, I suspected that I would have to play the hero, as so many did before, and save my kin and friends and children yet to come.

I know the spirit burns hotly when near, I know that shadows shelter the mind and the helpful sleep is not always an ally. But I did not choose a sad part-taking, my goodbyes were hopeful though my heart had its very doubts, I waved back even after we could not see each other. I knew that the only advice came from the heart and not the mouth and that preaching wasn't worth the moon and back if eyes had no meaning carved in that one love giving one love hungry look that spirit wood brothers gave after they have passed beyond desperation and self worries.

I knew where I have been heading all along, the sun has shown me, I was seen by the sun and began to see in my stead, and now I must burn more, still more love inside and give out heat, radiate good fortune, to melt the murky shadows that shelter fear, indifference, a disappointed and prolonged thirst and piles of questions, old and senseless. I can not tell them that I have found, that I am all those answers, but that they have, that they are.

Summer Dream

The first I have found, or better yet, that have been shown to me, were the best and the highest of all. Three woodpeckers have performed their task, enchanting to watch, and bared the trunks of three tall and healthy fir trees. The pieces of bark were almost warm in the sunny winter morning, as I have walked, without thoughts of my own, over the brown wet mounds at the bases of those trees of one family. Nature gave me then, her wielding, perfect smile, and whispered in my ear, as clear as the breath of winter's mountain air, that I have belonged to this world long before human kind did walk it. I saw then, with eyes that were carved by witty insects, by the help of birds, I began to see the many faces of the spirit woods race, each with a face marked by time and circumstance, much as we are, personas in time, each, a human, elf or kender, in disguise, and as I found them, they began telling me a story. And soon I did find, that though every tale was incomplete, each hinted at a larger picture, and thus I was compelled, not without joy or an unquenched curiosity, to search for their kind and reveal to my self and also to others, what took place in those parts that year, and perhaps, for many years that had passed.

' My grand-grand grandfather has told me of this and now I find it happening right before my eyes. We have all heard rumors of it and then the summons came and some went, but most of us stayed safely at home, in our timely sanctuaries. I have been told that this summer was endless and those before me have known the same, but now we watch from high places, from our high green castles, our brothers passing below the leaves. And as with any great event that is to come at the turning of the world, unique tales of places from afar come forth and are revealed, and our spirits find that their world, which seemed so small and self-explained and ordinary, is rather surprising in its loose and middle ends and full of hidden flowers and spices and kin unknown.

My neighbors are curious and leave their sleep and cooking and endless talks and tilt their faces through sprouting tiny leaves and soft moss inviting rest, to see them passing by, below the needles of green, dark branches, in columns, ranged in long, randomly punctuated lines, or packed in small groups or just a tiny and lonely figure, getting lost in the summer bramble and lush soil.'

And one has been seen, by few eyes, away from the light that was slowly gathering at the center and apart from the crowd, shyly watching from the gate of his wooden fort, his castle of gray and white bark, tinged with moss from the many water drops that have fallen, as crystal liquid spheres from beyond. The castle stands away from trodden paths and spirits wave to the glowing countenance of his eyes, seen pale and bleached against the dull and darkened outer wall, tall grassy trees have grown and clover-palms spring up from moisture, at the gate. The summons draws on this one, a kind and noble one, reluctant though and somewhat proud, in his retreat and solitude.

' We have seen them on our way to the gathering. We have seen those who were in hiding, as thieves before the fires to come, watching from behind musty mounds and concealing branches, we have also gazed at those too shy or too occupied with chore and necessity, who could not attend, we have looked as well towards those spirits who heard the shout but had not the calling, giving a salute and rising their head, stepping out of their homes and facing the brightness. We have seen and sensed, from a distance, green ghosts as we were, their warmth and embrace, their giving away unconditioned; and from the foot of the mountain, as the light shower came down, we waited for the future moment, when all would come. '

' I watched amazed, I watched with fear, I watched with silent joy, I watched in wait, I watched with a tear unwept and clean, I watched them file through the leaves, as squirrels drew circles on the tree trunk, unwavering dance, unhindered grace. We watched them pass and could only dream their footsteps away.'

' Out of those far to tell reaches, came a floating island with tall, moss-covered stony faces, hard and beset, yet benevolent, old and new, gathering great numbers of clover-palms in their silent and windy hovering, to grow out of their green beards and curly, tangled seaweed hair. The eyes in those faces were sunken hideouts, their mouths were seen closed in whispering and filled with grass and ladybugs. There were numerous colonies of larvae and myriapods who savored the rich soil that was found near the dangling roots of the island, and even a few small birds were seen circling by as companions. The island was empty of spirits, none have ever found a way to reach it and perhaps that came to pass because the spirit-birds were away or some had to grow back their wings. There are even stories of how this very island traveled through seas and lakes, and some fish can still be found in the remains of corals that now have mingled with the moss and short pine-trees that cover its hills. And there are heroes following it, for it shows the right path in its wake. '

Some wandering spirits I have met on my quest as an official witness of the history but also mundane events of the spirit wood realm have imparted that an island related to the floating island, probably an ancestor, resides in the fine sand bottom of the nearby sea, somewhere close to the shore. And they were told, by a most fortunate onlooker, that a spirit-turtle, with a soft mossy shell and a one leaf clover tail, swims around to a rising corner of this sunny reef that grows so near the water's edge, in hope of one day flying away, taken off by the awakening of the island. Perhaps until that will come into time, her offspring will play and eat in the yellow rich coral or swim and sleep, enveloped by the blankets of moss that cover the base of the rocks and the seabed. I can only imagine and surmise that this young spirit is part of a larger group of spirit-turtles, old and with their huge backs covered with islands of their own, preceded by birds in flight and surrounded by scores of quiet, content fish, and that the underwater island might be the place of their former gathering.

As I went down the line and pieced together stories, it seemed the woods opened up and I could see those two I had found at the beginning, and I started to really see, in spite of my great doubts, where it all has led me all along.
During my search I found a spirit-bird, a small creature hammered down by adversities and risky heights, who still cared with all her will after the gold translucent eggs. Two of her young were hatched already, pinned between sharp cliffs, where the nest had been built, protected from the wind ravages and from other birds. Inside the eggs I saw pulsating stars, binding and unbinding worlds in the instant of my eye's blink. Their color wavered, from gold to green and back again. I could the hear their voices, they were like pillars of stellar gas, as stars were born and then became worn out by time, in the many nebulae within. There were other birds in the budding pillars of the reunion, the bird had said, I remember, but none has given birth to suns. There are heroes, traveling on a narrow piece of land, covered with the saplings of a whole forest, that have grown tight one against the other, in the rich soil, fueled by the waters of life, and it is heading towards the summoning that has voiced the calling onto us.

Now, that the fog has lifted from the water, another piece of the emerald puzzle has fallen into place. I can see the leading figure holding a tall staff with a green budding crown atop it, that is still growing under the sun. The wooden staff is alive, it is part of the island, it is the staff made of a sapling taken from the millennium tree, after it had fallen from the sky and has passed into another cycle of growth. His companions, a faithful wood spirit-dog and another young spirit of the wood-kender race ( who just happened to enjoy adventure and the un-traveled road and just happened to pass by and tag along ), loyal as well, but unreliable at times and rarely capable of holding on to a promise, stood still as they had for many a month since they have began following the floating island, with its stone faces on top, looking east and west. They are bringing a whole forest along with them and can just feel, in their bones and chest and in the tingling soles of their feet, that they are close to the core.

There are those who have made it, those who did not, but will, and those who will always be expected home. But time, it is not there at all, for all, and waves, once started, like a ripple pass and spread the word: the iridescent reunion, the one containing all colored shadows gathered into light, has long been set forth. The magical realm is moving, the mountain is tall and its tip holds the diamond, the world is split so that it shall be whole again. Spirits gather and find their rightful place around the hills and slopes and paths and caves and rocky outcrops, at the base of forests and pastures, each with his face and stature, they gather and their closeness ties them together as they wait for the other one, spirit-wood brothers who have not come, not yet. And as they wait, the light turns lightning-bright and hits and splits each shell of knowledge and they all know each other and breathe as a root of the same tree. And the tip of the first leaf breaks the incandescent glow of the mountain's highest peak and grows towards the sky. The woodpeckers will come again, the nightingales shall follow in song, and one human traveler will open his eyes and see that the clouds have cleared away in honor of this reunion.

Since then I started to find spirits in all, they have been always there, waiting, had I eyes to see. I find them as stones and seashells scattered near the shore of the sea or as autumn leaves, early fallen kin of the same wood-spirit kindred. And I raise my eyes to the sun and know and wonder in what I shall find them anew.

The way the world moves, sometimes it is a golden wheel, wrought of light, sometimes a never-ending spiral, from darkness onto light, sometimes a circle that binds you to the promise of your blood, and other times a gathering of darkness, that resembles silence, movement’s lack.

Light trickles as an amber rain, full of shooting stars, gazing in the middle of their flight, flowing through and beyond pitch black emptiness, smolders of heat shine and pour, wood ambers revolve around their inner fire, smoke issues and follows in patterns of grey and dark blue.

Those tall trees are magical in a way, the whole forest is taller than the ones around it, the whole place hints of a hidden magnetism, of an ancient wandering place, of a long ago shelter for warriors of the body and soul. These high trees are old and sturdy, a memory of the spirits that once dwelled around and inside the place they still guard. Though more asleep that awake, the tall trees that you see seem closer than many people, will make you feel rested and safe, will surely outlive your bones and most of all, will look different yet always beautifully fascinating each season, over and over again.

A grand piano will sing a bluish lament, one violin can touch the strings of all that may be deep sky blue, soft evening cyan, crying out emerald blue, from the depths to the surface of all life, airy ether, of the same late sky dome color that precedes black.

Blue is the inherent color of sorrow, sadness can not burn red, sorrow can not turn green, sadness can not become yellow, sorrow can never be rendered in white, sadness will never stay black, sorrow’s only dance trickles blue, in a myriad of strings.

I was taken by the steady path, climbing and descending over grass and leaves, running in good and cloudy times, always following the direction of the sun. I had branches and small streams as road signs, I wandered off the path and back again. I believe I was trying to calm the mind and clear the eyes, I slowly remembered how to breathe, and then, little by little, how to think good thoughts, and even later, not sure precisely when, I wasn’t thinking. The woods were so large, the creatures within a small patch so numerous, the adventures and heroic deeds that those diverse beings were set upon, the difficulties rendered onto their many long travels from one huge city colony to another, their trials and social gatherings overwhelmed my imagination. I was a tiny insect going over the many intricate highways and passes on a minuscule part of vegetation, making my way to the tower with the ever climbing radial ramifications touching the whites in the sky, dreaming to reach the heavy encompassing crust that covered that pounding heart beneath the brown bark. I was a bird in flight, signaling to my friend that was making rounds and surveying part of our realm. I was a bear, polishing and sharpening my claws. I was singing about the bears, the blue and the brown bears.
And when the song ended, I came to myself back on the path, and though neither of going left or right, thought not of counting the beats remaining until the sun’s rest, for then I would have to become that worrisome thinking creature again, and just took a deep breath, and put one foot in front of the other. I believe I was smiling once more.

Someone said that the sky can only be beautiful, never placid, though it be devoid of the embodiment of clouds, it will never repeats its hues, it will resemble the last open space out there, it will shine even after the sun has long departed. The sky can also be red, and of all the colors of the rainbow, blue is just the mood it prefers to be in most of the time it is not troubled.

A passenger mingles throughout the spectrum of light, a passer by bends light rays in its flight from the ending of all things. People come and go, each with a personal world woven from all the colors of the spheres, stretching their existence as well as one might, strangers even to one’s self sometimes, leaving behind the masks of many hues and contradictions.

One figure may stand for a whole universe, yet never is one figure content to always bask alone in the sun. A single silhouette will sing and call over and above the surrounding air, it may sing with heart full joy, it may stand in contemplation and wonderment for a time close to infinity, but will always search for Never Neverland. And that land beyond all colors and contrasts, is full of strangers that may become friends. A lone figure and a lone tree will talk, as the wind brushes both their faces.

White is that color that if one achieves, should not be broken. Winter covers all, blends all colors into forgetfulness, prepares nature, eye and mind, for quiet contemplation. Winter is the season were silence is golden and blue and silver, shining more brightly in the sun, hurting the eye that looks straight into the middle of the white flakes. Winter is the season when you can hear the snow falling, each and every crystal, the season of the great equalizer and frosty breath.

A daydreamer’s story

[…] And every tree is a lifetime, each leaf a memory. It started with a cold feeling making its bird nest in my chest, startling me with its strangeness. I came to hate the world for I couldn’t understand it anymore, I thought it abandoned for I found no one watching over it in my search.[…]

[…]They are still there, coming and going, you can find them if you look, only if you look harder, only if you look past what you are thought, what you have read, look to what you barely listen to, find the silenced moments and the dew, forever new, of your fever’s search. With all conclusions left behind, neither yesterday or tomorrow, I realized that a king’s fool was a far better magician than I, that I lack determination and strive for too much seriousness, but I couldn’t give up, the worse of the lot as I was, for I have caught the magic singing on so many outstretched palms, wisping around stories, building waves over the souls of people I never knew. […]

[…]I never turned my head, always sought them when I passed. I found out in one of the citadels that I am not insane, that so much machinery has driven the sun and moon out of so many of my people’s souls. I could finally call them my people, even though it remained as hard as before to call out. Sometimes I got smiles, though less of young people, perhaps they are feeling safer, perhaps I have become more secluded than most of my generation. I knew, nevertheless, that the lifestyle they could embrace did not fit me. […]

[…] Still, I kept going and the more I went I got swept off my feet more often. So many more were out there, I just couldn’t lock myself up in a mountain. Both sides waited there – and I knew I will eventually find the dreamers. There are many ways to dream, you, reading this, have your own. Still, we recognize ourselves. Some of us have seen the lies and signs overcrowding all means of information from the fabled subway wall to the updating newspaper of the future. We know that however you wrap it, an atomic bomb won’t serve for defense, we hope for the critical mass of conscious beings that will reduce the insanity of the planet, who will never sell the soul of anyone for a grain of gold. We are called dreamers but I say we are only looking at the possibilities of today and believing in them while so many before us maintain with conviction that they are the impossible concerns of future generations, or worse, assume that war among us is in our nature. Wise men know that politics is overrated and something else makes the world go round. […]

[…] I find that so many shelters are being built, so many humming contraptions that hold armies and bombs in their bellies, it would be better if we considered ourselves as a race the nervous system of this planet ( even though we are not ) and treat it accordingly. The sun and the mountains don’t make distinctions between our deaths and those of the other species that are here. You know the numbers. But how many know the feeling? […]

[…] My wishes travel, though I lay in bed, my good wishes count in this world, though my death will not. Even though I am erased, my wishes still go on and even though this is one of them, I will part with you gladly when the moment comes. My wishes have no power in themselves but they can travel and leave a trace behind and if this trail burns brightly enough others may come that way, and, mix in luck's aid and fate’s smile, people will build bridges where an empty feeling stood once. The power of thought is known to move destiny and I know you will ask for no proof. […]

[…] I fancy my mind with tearing down the walls between us and I didn’t even find some to make a home out of. A wanderer is the son of man, still I can’t place my head over my own heart and sleep and so fall in the caving space behind, with all tails of light vanishing in the dark. If the road is my home, if the earth is my home, if my soul wanders between Venus and Mars how vast should my heart be? There are strangers that filled it quicker than my thoughts could ignite, they were homeless too, lonely sons of men, my home was theirs, for an instant theirs was mine. […]

[…] So rich are the people of this world. They have each other and they haven’t fully realized that yet. When that happens I won’t be part of this world, still, I wish I was given the chance to see it. Their eyes will outshine the stars and supernovae, for they will have discovered they are rich beyond belief and in this see the reason for the power that was never theirs to command. […]

[…] It should be an irony to spend life thinking about death and to be obviously unprepared at the last moment. I have been thrown from one side to another by loneliness, forced to sink down with the ship by all the people I love. I had to admit that my road will be ever lonely, that I know nothing for sure and still hope that I will find the ones to join me for a part of the adventure. I am far from impeccable yet I invite you on this great trip. Sometimes, I believe death can’t come for me, because this is for what I was born. […]

[…]Some of the people I see go by themselves, some chose to depart in pairs. Most of them never leave the safety and familiarity of the port. I left the caravan or the caravan left me here, I still don’t know that, and I’ve been staring out, awed and attracted by the ocean, gathering my courage, looking for the right ship. I looked but couldn’t find anyone to share a voyage with, no friends, family, elven princess or shooting star. So far, I remain on the shore of humanity and I see each drop of water as one destiny rolling after another, and wait and search for a companion. I won’t be able to stay much after the sunset, however, and if high tide, will leave alone. Between my lashes I look out and see the few ships that sail beyond my sight. I must find someone to go with me over the lingering horizon.

Help us stand before the sun.
Free.
So does the falling star reflected in your eyes,
Before its wake in the sea.

Praise the fiery fox, the pure sun. The heart of a poem is not a crystal core, not even were it flawless. The heart of the poet was full of fireflies; they found shelter when he passed the swamp and forest, don’t think they didn’t give their last flicker freely at each fall of the letters. The space between the words was covered by the sighs of the small creatures; a full stop was a sign of compassion. Read on, unravel their light strings, quiet down his heart by taking out their light, steal his sight, bead by bead, his hearing and his speech, confound him in unfeeling, pick out the memories he’s left with one by one. His heart was a light year away.

A bitter battle is to pass over one’s own grief, to softly place your hand in the place you expected one to be offered. Be gentle when you can, hold your tears for a future moment, make them your joy for crying out alone. Tear the wall down and use its bricks to lay wide bridges, go forth and embrace who ever needs it, whoever you have a hold on. The space between your fingers resembles music, use them to shake hands, swing them to hum in your walk, put the moon in the depths of your weaver's loom when you encircle it. Make your fingers dance and whisper and many roads will spring in search of needed help, you will have forgotten the bitter grief which started you on this. How I wish I did it more. So much more.

All the roads unfinished, all the words unspoken, for all the other choices than never went down the stream, for the multitude of gods who never came to be, all the miles walked in search of secret promises, all the lies told in place of all goodbyes, for most of times that came out better in the end, for all the times I'd said I found you, all those have escaped my gaze and hearing, evaded my thought and became free, for not even flight hindered them out there. I wait for you now, have counted the stars since I was a child, and hang my white ladder by the moon every clear night, hoping you’ll pass by.

The yard was golden and the dust only makes this memory keep more of its old taste. There are fewer and fewer squirrels in the park, I guess I’ll have to move to another town soon, I don’t want to lose my first memories in some battered down park that doesn’t resemble my visions as a child. I get the feeling the squirrels are playing with me and with the world, I can taste the pines from the park and I remember people understood little from what I asked them when I was a child. It never rains in here, I’ll just bend over the golden curtain and tuck a thread in my pocket, don’t worry about my first day among other kids, I can still see it, taste the fine thick dust and the hard shadow strolling down the stony yard.