Month: November 2019

recognising an emotion

does not necessarily mean

giving in to it

a silent, subtle rain

runs behind the melody

of a late owl

singing the night out

to welcome a silent subtle day

where emotions are to be put in order

like clothing in a closet

folded neatly

and decided upon

whether or not

it has any need

To be

a night of wake

over the body of a dead dream

as for every illusion

there is the silent sadness

of losing the idea

that the mind identified with

as there is this subtle relief

felt by every person

being given the grace

to breath slightly more freely

and real

last night the moon was out

and this morning

the belt of orion shine bright over the treetops

even if

a thin layer of clouds

is covering the sky

there is a certain kindness in the air

even if

the cold is setting in

and rough rains do what they can

to discourage

the most cheerful of souls

there is always hope

even if

heavy

steady

falling rain

has its own beauty

and beauty can have this particular quality

of appeasing a mind in turmoil

quiet dreams

talking in their own language

reminding the dreamer

of some unsettled issues

from the past

there is nothing suffocating

or violent

or threatening

it rather feels

as a caring father

asking with tenderness

if one have finished to do

all the homework

without imposing by force

or authority

the time and moment it has to be untied

just indicating

that it is still there

and need to be dissolved

for the past

to find

peace

the world is covered in gold

and the earth in golden leaves

as soon as the sun comes out

to illuminate the trees

their exquisite beauty

is thrust upon every

sensitive soul

and it is this same beauty

that allows the acceptance

of disappearance

since disappearance is

in this situation as well

just a matter of changing

appearance

every change has its own violence

and every change

its own beauty

how to wake up to exhaustion

without losing faith

that everything is

in its proper place

how to sit exhausted

at the silent river of hope

running somewhere inside

to let the sound of water irrigate the dry fields

of heart

how to be quiet long enough

for water to penetrate the chambers of this sacred organ

where the alchemy of charity

is taking place

not again

is what one could be tempted to exclaim

though that will not change

the rain

only the mood

experiencing in vain

the limits of every effort to gain

that particular state

where whatever happens

is received as a game

where whoever ever enters

is received the same

somehow absorbed

in a thoughtful mind

only the wind leaves impressions

distinct enough to be taken into account

yet

the wind is not strong

just present

playing nostalgic with the leaves

all too aware

that they will not be there for long

to receive its invisible caress

plain rain

falling

calling

for a day

spent

in white sheets

calling

for fire

in the fireplace

calling

for cuddles