Ancient Tooth

Warm, bittersweet hour of the dusk,

calm breeze under orange shades.

Would these shores be a place for luck

to smile before the swaying waves.

How about one day down south,

gazing upon wild everglades.

Earth’s bonding gift to keep her vow

serenely appearing from its wait.

Past ocean currents far from here,

filled wide coasts with spiked arrays,

but that old promise was sincere;

her loved keepsake’s been in these bays.

Far back then, earth’s greatest ranges in their youth

turned hot winds to fresh rainfalls.

Far back then, clever lineages in their youth

stood up to shout their prime calls.

Seas and lands so vibrant yet the feel so soothed,

in one last golden age for all.

Something under earth's hold is stuck

just for these sands to endow,

just for time to choose

the right day to grant their truth.

Big Hearted share of many millions of lost years.

Such a rugged touch to turn out marbly smooth.

For epochs left to linger sunk,

by ancient sea lords to sow.

Not for them to lose,

but to gladly grant their truth.

Big Hearted share of much of the most loved years.

Such an idle thing to turn out this lively smooth.

Some sort of Cartoon

Is there anything beneath?

Any word beyond the script?

Isn’t all of this a skit?

Some sort of cartoon.

Suddenly teared off the stage’s curtains

just to see this world’s recursions.

Every veil of deceit,

the mirror of a need.

And since it’s true that all of the nations

are ridicule in some fashion,

the same pattern repeats

among all times and breeds.

Everything turns quickly into satire.

Inertial force drives the matter

in a void of mislead

one’s self lost out of reach.

Is there anything beneath the costume?

Is it empty slate when the script’s assumed?

Isn’t anyone some sort of cartoon?

The turns of the world

Desde esa morada sin fondo, a través

de penumbra abisal,

eones ascienden en danzas de pez

entre la nada y el ser.

¿Cuál será la parte a tributar?

¿Y el valor de este año al ver atrás?

Si su peso en sal,

es la gota lagrimal.

Un par o dos de milenios,

el oro de los reinos.

Si las mariposas se van antes que el

sentimiento otoñal,

son los días finales del último mes

de vida del fuego fiel.

por cada meteórica verdad,

cien mil silogismos al azar.

En lenta espiral

la estrella caerá en el mar.

Un par o dos de inviernos,

brillantes argumentos.

Nothing will prevent the turns of the world.

The turns of the world,

despite all the words.

No one can avoid the turns of the world.

The turns of the world,

renewing returns.

On Time's Side

Oh, those feelings

somewhere in the day, of dimness.

Morning recalling, prospecting nighttime.

Lifetime mirrored,

the hollowness in the middle

of the crossroads to the story’s right side.

 

Phases move on,

facts all around, they stay afloat

an ocean of boiling beliefs inside.

Flaws, convenient

when principles turn to commitment

to benefit from the moment’s right time.

Slow heart healing,

paving the way to mind’s clearness.

Morning recalling, prospecting nighttime.

Grit gets brittle

when noticing it’s the middle

of the crossroads to the story’s right side.

Ways linger on,

convenient views, they serve as boats

on oceans of boiling beliefs inside.

Truths, indifferent,

when principles turn to commitment

to benefit from the moment’s right time.

Time’s right 

to hold on its designs,

and bailing out to abide

gets imminent.

Right sides

to choose from open ends,

to take with cleared head,

not to relent.

Time’s right

holding on its designs,

so once bailed out to abide

the moments let 

the right side

to move the healed hearts on.

Those lingering ways, gone,       

not to lament.

Cascade of Whirls

 Opposing life form, undefined,
implies fight or flight if it rises.
Die killing, die crying.
Unknowingness in all the cases.

how come, relentless prime force
of the earth comes under the shape
of a fragile smiling
gaze under a cascade of whirls.

So what 's to know drawn against this visage of fate?

Panic spreads without restraint,
Multiplying the solace taste of such a smile.
The bonding sense with fair wild eyes,
a sense whose name blooms to concede, for such a smile.
The sense whose time comes to reveal, for such a smile.

The two offerings

For the Apostles of Helios,

a testimony of their deeds made of songs.

For Lord Enki who's from Eridu, 

tales of the future to picture his way home.

Myth of Origin

I

No light within the sphere.

Beyond, unknowable strive.

Unusual without warning

its puzzling sight appears,

its guise, a beam of light,

bringing that only morning

through hardened atmosphere

from a fissure open high

amidst the sealed night vaulting.

Randomly pointed afar

revealing thin silhouettes.

Unveiled the true magnitude

of the grounds that appear

below the dark dome, and set

cardinal points to be viewed.

Suddenly as it’d come, the glare

closed the tiny crack and left

the lands to large solitude.

II

Then came the time to sustain

journeys in obscurity.

Reckoning the steps to take,

stumbling across the terrain

through countless days in fatigue.

Scant progress yet profuse aches.

Counting out loud to arrange

invisible maps, to seek

uncharted places again.

Clearing thoughts along the path,

while in the middle of all

the climbing ways in hardship,

came unnoticed dim contrasts.

The shadows under the vault

had slowly been departing,

so there were spotted at last

land contours under a soft

daybreak glow that had started.

III

high up there,

the round ceiling of the sphere

turned somehow to glassy clear

sprayed in depth with starry blur.

Far ahead, that bright.

CHORUS

Sudden white light shaft signaling at vague vistas.

Etched in memory the thin outlines of ranges around.

Once revealed its message, it sealed up the rift and left

not so much a gift but a reminder and behest.

Grueling quests carried on with no trace of clarity,

sounding out the grounds along, to make way in the unknown.

Subtly on the way, the somber veil dwindled its heft

so much that a distant dawn scattered its extent.

Vivid night of fresh breeze and soft sounds of hidden streams.

Long way still, marked by a constellation of three stars.

Call-out to pursue one enigmatic light’s request.

Far ahead the glowing crevice opens the ascent.

Not About

It’s not about refraining from, 

since it keeps dwelling in the mind 

that the strings of solid worlds

still pull the spirit from behind.

But rather that it is in sight

as something of a rift, before

the rusted highness of gone mights,

and even young souls dread the flood.

Amid the granules of static noise,

over the tangles of the veins of old,

mysterious patterns call witnesses eyes

as woven coating above line of sky.

Sometimes, as if boiling point is glimpsed,

or maybe as quiet and unchanged

but yet, the flow of unseeable waves

had long been blowing for the poles to shift.

There’s a firm certainty in that, whatever is to unfold,

what forged the shackles for the chaining of the words

is but a vector for life’s oscillating cords.

It’s not about refraining from,

it’s not about dismissing plights.

A silver string of what’s to come

is pulling from what is in sight.

It’s not about refraining from.

Much as this far has come its light.
It’s not about restraining love.

The torch relay's not to deny.

Pese

Pese al esfuerzo focal y consciente  

en la erosión de los compartimentos, 

tras decidirse el diluir los patrones 

que determinan el temperamento, 

las muescas regeneran insistentes,

restauran condición de las visceras: 

atrofia notoria de entendimiento, 

inconscientes reacciones alérgenas.

Entornos pétreos provocan fracturas 

en causas, estímulos y motivos, 

si bien el cuerpo opera indiferente,  

sus partes ignorando el organismo. 

Las disrupciones quiebran intenciones, 

las partes interesadas padecen. 

Tras un tiempo se integran al archivo, 

en contraste, la culpa permanece.

Hecatombe Omega

1

Acuérdate cuando fuiste vista

por última vez en las aristas

de la memoria en cumbres extrañas

nubladas en la noches de fantasmas

En tu retrato tú no miras de frente

sino a la izquierda en medio de la playa,

tu pelo rizado baila con los cielos

y tus labios advirtiendo los lamentos

2

Her lips will hold your only final answer
is the motto of my deepest inner world.

The universe has given me the question,

So this destiny shall then remain untold.

3

The Doubtful Compliant

Demanded a decision

from wisdom never claimed.

Yet to blame for mouth held closed

thus leaving that burden to faith.

Why should the sage be bred?

What would the yields worth

when belief turns numb and the self

sole to speak for?

Thoughts roamed around bleak clouded lanes

where lights decline.

Through grey cold mist heard chained pulsing hearts.

Lost days keep prisoner ghosts, old dreams still cry.

Past unwise deeds wildly sprouted,

hindered routes, when sound's beyond reach.

Once with clear night skies, plain truth's revealed.

Bright days concealed vast fears.

Courtyard's warm brown stones

surround this shelter's sparse mild grass.

Sweet memories in their cloister

while grand cosmic sights call them.

Yesterday, can't hide long in yesterday.

Today claims compliance.

Our thoughts had left their prisons,

sour fruits from long gone actions had

allowed ease to our minds.

How could we blame wise faith's decisions?