My Fingers Burn
Time to leave, gather, the caravan moves,
Not in this city, in the fold of arms, embrace.
The view is where the tavern is, so is desire
Of the heart. Like an autumn’s eve, the self devoid;
Season of spring, fragrant flower, and colors are you.
These lonely streets, where my eyes carried, your image
A stranger’s abode, dust of feet, is the treasured home.
We were happy, had we been in a count, in annals,
Had we hosted, but just once, the angel of death.
Grace so descended on yourself, statuesque!
On your footsteps, I grew ambrosia, freesia and Jasmine;
Far, tall, wide and distant, is this you, or a reflection,
Such delusions I espouse, such illusions of an oasis.
My wish to weave pearls of beauty, O praise,
Be a word other than, any human ever disposed.
An art, yet not discovered, a song not sung,
A soul so nourished, a beauty not ever seen.
I hold my palms to my eyes, my fingers burn,
Hath anyone bent the fate, moved the earth and,
Brought down the stars. Aflame are the imaginations,
This night. A cup more, red roses, red wine more.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Minumina: by Jose A. Olivares, audiovisual music
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