Fire That Quenches Poem by Cristobal Benjumea

what happens

is a sign

next time ill let the horse go

il be armour plated
you will be there

i have no confidece in ghosts

manners in the eternal garden, the altar better

in the rain that falls

of the passage of the moon

you fertile part of the earth

where are the flowers

we are the flowers

were are the followers of the sun

where do we follow

who do we follow

follow the waves

follow the forest route that leads to the naked valley, the lake in the middle glimers of god

his love gazes o us

enveloping us

the perfume enrices us to seek the highest peaks

our love is a mountain

the path to sublime ridiculousness through the treelined zone

means evelasting peace

for all except monsters

only those adorers of him and his glimmering chainmail

for love bestowed him with a many faceted vission of future comfort

fertile valley yield to my steps

the light subdues me and in many ways, is reflected in the stream that travels through the country to down, allways down, not up, down to the salt sea

allthough fish of many colours jump, and the cristal river shines

its many hues entrance our listless eyes

oue inspiration holds our attention, and sugests many layerd love

witch enables our frail spirit to reach the sweet core of our compatriots

and fanatics of her love balm

which seduces our movements

rapture is our master

as we stumble through the laberinth

to the comfortable region

where all is allways beautifull, and hoyness, purifies everywhere we lay

endowing us with happyness without bounds, as the caress of the breeze, enlightened by the advent of renewing glances from ninfs of the fountain of extacy

happyly we sit on spongy couches sitting amongst unimaginable luxury

we are captivated by dancing muses, that sing to us melodies, that will our godlike desires to new frontiers, our thirst becomes paramount to their existance, beconing our shadows to become lions

beconing our thirst to be the sacred duty of the gods

our ardent embers, fullfiled

they say dont murder me

arange the order of the rose the purple

these are mesages of him to her

the red passion for that

purple

pink