All those thorns
dig deep, like shards
of reflections
in an eternal hourglass.
Someone’s love
was once trapped
in these blissful stains
erupting from a church’s waters,
in windows that were replicas
of former erosions,
of smoothness to palms
pierced with nails for portraits,
pierced with teeth
that leave marks.
Pureness in sickness,
while life weeps in its defeat,
fallen into arms
that keep a child silent.
This love, leaking out from
a heart in its frozen serenity.
I want to fall inside
these bleeding hymns,
writing a will,
leaving an epitaph
floating as a phantom
above a crude stone.
I want to erase
all my unkind words
from anyone’s memory.
If Hell can have me,
if the Devil can want me,
I will embrace his heated eyes
if to keep out all those lies
from watering red gardens
from sinking skies.
All those thorns
cutting kneeling forms,
while love grows in petals,
while hatred quenches its thirst
no longer, in these storms,
holding scarred hands,
sharing unshaped sands.
Modern Romanticism 