Vivaldi’s wrathful violins

Be the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.  ~Lord Byron

* * * * *
It’s that time again,
just before the streets and
the souls of walking people adopt
the crepuscular cover of the night
and the mass of watery atoms in the air,
engaged in a savage samba
with the ray- less sky
applauds the winds that
grow adventurous, almost chivalrous.
Leaves are spent under rain drops
and anxious whispers, and hope somehow
rises weary and little by little leaves.
*
I am left with bloodthirsty icons
of the four season
and in each of them, the sun bows
to Vivaldi’s wrathful violins.
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© 2013  Broken Sparkles
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There comes a time …

“That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.” ~ Pablo Neruda, Walking Around

* * * * *

There comes a time …

There comes a time, I’m tired of stories-
feckless, empty, of daydreams without
blithe ends, sulfur- colored, collapsing,
supple under lachrymal gliding in a sea of ashes.

I’m in here, trapped and fatigue, inside a bygone maze
and the spice of brutally cold walls stops me pretending
that I believe in amity miracles and love flowers,
a lifetime collected in a crack of agony.

There comes a time, I’m tired of thinking,
my dark heart and my even darker silhouette,
they are just fallen rebels in the lost era of butterflies.

And it would be good if I could learn to fly again,
in the middle of the night, through medieval châteaux
or through roof tops of avant-garde skyscrapers.
But it will be all the same, because
it so happens that I’m tired of wearing a mask
and the mornings burn with moistureless creativity.

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Moistureless creativity

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© 2013  Broken Sparkles

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To a stranger- letter 5

”They did not speak, they did not bow, they were not acquainted; they saw each other; and, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing upon each other.” ― Victor Hugo

* * * * *

It was one of the days without public transport, I had to walk on my way back home from the coffee morning with a friend. It was unusually warm day for this time of the year, despite the cloudy skies, I had my camera with me and the walking was pleasant. Instead of taking the shortcut to my neighborhood, I decided to wander a little and I found myself standing in front of Kallimarmaro stadium/ Greek: Καλλιμάρμαρο, meaning the “beautifully marbled”- the athletic stadium in Athens that hosted the first modern Olympic Games in 1896/. And there he was, dressed in black, with style and male elegance, holding one of those fancy cameras I’d like to have too. He seemed so absorbed in exploring the stadium, carefully choosing what to photograph and I was absorbed by the invisible, yet, so bright, positive energy that surrounded him. The moment he turned around and walked away from the fence of the stadium, the only thing I remember from that moment is his blue, happy eyes. I didn’t find the courage to try and talk to him, I stayed watching him for a little while and then I left.

Dear, blue-eyed stranger, if you ever see this post, know that your eyes made you the most perfect stranger I’ve ever seen. Shame they will remain only a sapphire memory, the brightest memory ever  …

* * * * *

And you, dire soul in broken, sunrise flames,
between white-rock stairs and swan-feathered winds,
you pace over the death of glory and névé,
and savour the warmth in the eyes of a stranger,
holding the last rays of the Olympian lights
and desires, and bitter taste of kismet,
and the screams of the miles and the time difference.

* * * * *

Dire soul in broken, sunrise flames

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© 2013  Broken Sparkles

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