THE CHILD WE WERE

We live enchanted in our distant past,
domain of memories and reflection.
With images so close to perfection,
to make the present an iconoclast.
Weep, you sunset of Memento Mori
for times of stories and faithful intend.
Ere you embrace the journey that will end
sequestered without the songs of glory.

Our youth's desire is a delusive dream
but still our most loved portrait on the wall;
yet with some resignation we recall
the darker corners framing the esteem.


Who wants to know that in this pyramid


we said what we would do and never did?

MYSTIC DREAMS

I have a caravan of mystic dreams,
there's one in which you dance 'm scarlet dress
that floats around your shape, or so it seems.
The dream is quite exquisite, more or less.
When in my mind's eye so your image nears,
and my expectant soul begins to sense
that you are near, my vision blurs with tears,
as if I'm looking through a foggy lens.

The velvet buds dance with you in the breeze,
as do the yellow flowers in the grass;
until you stop and all your movements freeze.
It's time to let the magic moment pass-,


and feel the loss on which the dream depends,


the music stops, the surreal image ends.

ELEVATED MEMORIES

Earlier this year, in the mountains of our land,
oh, sober glory of precious memories.
We were companions and we defied the world;
the world of snow and sun, when we escaped
the sharp end of frost and wind.

The summit was our goal; direct in view
between the hills, as a distant spire
of glorious steel that challenged heaven.
The fog closed the landscape behind us
as our boots moved urgent through the brush.

The white silence, where you and I
existed alone and forever together.
The impenetrable peace of the moments
when stranger's eyes did not observe
And no calls could reach us.

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