Two hands, amazed they are.
Lands they could easily measure,
terms and tides as well
and all numbers of human
mislead by their senses
faltering with the expecting wonder.
Two eyes, still and deeply silent
behind the globe of my secret
where you must look very closely
holding a mirror lit by the dying whisper
of the last flame of sunset.
No doubt, I should allow myself to rest
when only by myself I’m hindered
waiting for the true but bewildered essence
from which I suffer like a lonesome poet,
I steer my silly pursue of passion
to cross the ocean of evening’s delight.
Two hands still amazed when turn to labour
Two eyes worried of the alarming pant
host I am of a stirred but steadfast pride
a winged woman, flying with her dreams
while her thoughts are perched aside.
May 3rd 2016