Modern Romanticism

Sometimes, a tear
will let go, at the sight
of fallen snow. I want
to keep reviving
a stagnant signal,
to keep thriving
what lives me on
in those white clouds,
dropping these marks
on unfolded roads.

At times, I’ll scream
out, what keeps me loosened,
from seams. What has kept me
wandering, among such scenes?

What else, other than
your light, that never goes astray,
guiding me, between night and day?

What else will fuel these veins,
sending a surge through,
to rekindle these stains?

At those mountaintops,
where sunlight begins rising,
I am eternal, in remembrance
of all those flushes,
transparent upon cheeks,
glimmering beneath
a warm glance,

one that fades,
but never runs away,
or one that turns away
but never stays silent.