Love weighs as much as the dream that dislodges a swinging door in the high and the low mark is furthermore, the gold coin that vegetates in the forest of one night as a single night gives us the sense of yes and the contradiction of the no of that coin; a swinging door every night gives love to the intermittent stars — two contradictory shadows make love the most splendid flame and establish forever the golden principle of love.
The lamp that the text of the shadow has broken into a thousand fragments of dawn lets out alchemical words and a million shadow-years we respond with a million woman-years each woman is an alchemist syllable.
The mirror and its minute waves deliver us to life that part of simultaneous high and low tide with great power we cross its burning chest more demanding than the cyclothymic toche and we go out into what they ambiguously call life attracted by the reflection of a twinkling of feathers while at our back the mirror thoroughly erases its images and we unarmed do not find the entrance, we who find the exit luxury that groans in the night the lamp has cut its wrists for love to finally know what darkness is Love weighs as much as reality that dislodges that swinging door opens inside closes outside exteriorizes a specter the puberty of sleep internalizes a world that swinging door camouflaged as a jungle and only one tree is enough to dissolve its mystery the phoenix of love throws its ashes into the air!
Love can ignite the eternal fuse and it flies from the X in an ever-expanding poem as ephemeral and lifelike as the Moon is engulfed by an abyss in that same ultimate solitude Love is burning and it glows through a beautiful fire.
it is not the sound that makes you cry // it is not the sight that tears your eyes \
it is not the touch that hurts
it is not the feelings that make you cry
it is the scene of the moment
and it is the moment of the perspective that makes you cry
and you cry with your whole being as if you have never cried at all
and the other minute waves carrying the alchemical fire in the silence
awash with words like hidden tears
then return that reduces you to a mass of loathing
It is that once that sound has passed you, that one expression that sends you into mourning that begins to tarnish the form of love and make it hollow, its hero, once human, becomes contemptible, quiescent, and unconscious.
Only then are you in proximity to nature in a phenomenal intimacy.
:: 07.01.2022 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 