Giorgio Veneto (Athens, Greece)
The rose inside my hands is fresh and red
its color drips like words and oaths avowed
and kind its solitude - bloom's thorn endowed
with raindrops it befalls, and graces shed.
I know the winds that blow from foreign lands
and fast like wraiths they pass above the fields
an attar they disperse while sunshine gilds
blooms' sentiment that solemnly expands.
I know them cause disorderly they talk,
express our tale that from the past distills,
like rain that falls upon the soil and sills,
and dews the ferns, the shady pines and rock.
The mental reasoning and thinking breadth
becomes a swarm of birds that travel far,
like dreams perceived and one unlisted mar,
that sole exists inside absorption's depth.
That single wrong, in depth, transforms to shade
that alters colors and the night descends
inside the mirror, a rose thorn amends
and spills my dripping drops that fall and fade.
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