Tangent Traces

Black silk seldom comes loose
like today, slowly falling 
over these cold shoulders,
lost to view, for so long,
some of her older wounds,
healed with no scarring,
have sealed away
the hazardous germs of regret,
for (eternal) good.
Only a few, younger and bolder,
have chosen to stain,
like some belated birth marks
threatening to prodigally abandon
their permanent rosy-purple shades
resembling some abstract paint shapes
accidentally dropped
on her body
by an impetuous pair of hands.
this handful of painless cicatrix
were scattered around for a reason
they must be more
than some random, a priori seeds
meant to prevent full oblivion
or mildly alleviate
the dysmorphic geometry
and bleeding arithmetic
of one’s own forgiveness.
Being molten, refrozen,
then filled with incandescence
from within
can truly  reshape one’s figure,
to the point where
your tears
can severely damage
the sight of a hidden beholder.
Head over heels,
she can still stand tall
in front of  the mystery man
of lofty ideals and golden letters
in her mid-life dreams.
Come to think of it, none of these scars
has ever been seen”,
she whispered,
wrapping herself in this new feeling
of innocence and self-empathy,
of immune completeness
outside the solemn borders of reality,
like nothing before.
Pacific arms around neck and waist,
eyes closed dreamingly,
silent hair waves falling back
followed, from a safe distance,
by a sculpturally curved consent
an almost immaterial mergence
of their upper selves 
both leaning forward, 
in selfless surrender,
with such ethereal grace.
Nothing we do will erase them,
It’ll just grant their short-lived presence
a deserved place” he said.
 Sadly enough for the two of us,
real time cannot be inverted
the way the sand is poured down,
the same sand, over and over again,
removed from the infinite ocean
then locked away and compelled
to measure the tiny bits of our lives
through the transparent funnel
of a purely ornamental hourglass.



The heart 
of the mighty kingdom 
on the banks of the Thames,
its loyal grey river, 
connecting the spectacular bridges 
like a mythical, cloudy fluid!
The tube is a silent dragon, 
crossing the underworld at high speed...
I am arrived from the other corner of the earth, 
At home, at last, with English
though, in all honesty, 
at every street corner, 
I’m bound to express myself,
my sheer excitement and my worships
in a more familiar native tongue.
Above the Millennium Wheel, 
the morning sun is heating up the spirits
Big Ben, the real one this time, 
more majestic than its postcard versions
or the hazy, black-and-white illustrations
in my childhood’s old textbooks.
Carefully synchronizing my heartbeats
with the Londoners’ rhythm of life
I look left, then right 
and cross the avenues and streets 
in front of the patient drivers.
I don't forget to breathe in 
the mistic scents and fragrances of the city, 
thank God for having blessed me
to be here
then follow a new holiday crowd
to an unknown, unmarked,
never-seen-before territory
until the end of the Queen’s Walk
brings me closer to an iconic Tower Bridge.
Speechless and spellbound,
I surrender to the call of the British Museum
and feel I could give my entire life
or spend each and every of my dreams
in this heaven 
of historic modernity,
of epic poetry and sterling politeness,
of monumental cultural heritage 
and breath-taking friendliness and civility.
Here I am, finally, 
on the cobbled streets of the Roman Londinium!
Either on foot or horse-powered, 
I feel alive in the midst
of these life-size concrete, steel and glass pictures,
(no wax models for me, please).
Out in the fresh air, I sit by the lake for a while
then resume my walk in the famous Hyde Park 
on the soft green carpet and its lovely paths
leaving the urban humdrum,
the double-deckers and black taxis behind.
My pleasant stay at the Rose Park Hotel,
the taste of British food, 
the souvenirs I bought for myself
and my dear ones, 
the admiration for the royal family, 
sweet memories of my new American friends 
and their happy, happy smiles,
the photographs we took of each other...
I’ll take them all with me 
to feed my very soul until the day I die.


Harvest Time Melancholy

Once I found an apple,
Fallen at the bottom of a tree;
It could have followed
the laws of gravity down the hill
but, instead, it had kept near.
It had belonged to that apple tree
Before it fell to the ground,
“Finders are keepers”, I told myself,
So I picked it up as something 
that had always belonged to me.
I once owned a perfect apple,
mine in its fullest of ripeness,
with moist, fleshy sweetness
surrounding the brown seeds.
At the end of its summers and springs,
just like Isaac Newton,
I sat down for a while
and thanked the tree for the apple, 
thought about autumn and gravity,
then stood up 
and looked down the hill.