The
ocean perfumes the blue
dawn,
the surface smell is
so sweet.
The waves mirror indulgence
and smiles
that balance tenderness
yours and mine.
Softness is delight.
Why aren’t all moments
of joy?
No more an improbable
search.
Keep away the improbable
gestures.
Glory is born of baroque
images.
It doesn’t pass Spring,
but it’s visible in
the yellow dawn
that my eyes search
for.
The breeze comes from
loving,
it doesn’t speak words
of love.
It flies and goes,
and travels in green
forests
of love and of passion.
Illusion?
It’s better to go to
the Land of Fire.
It’s better to walk
in the snows of Kilimandjaro.
