Evening Contemplation

My beloved journal, shadows at the door;

Like Salvador’s paper, as the baron I lie.

Fryderyk’s mazurkas, a glass of port,

charming desolation: Who am I?

A day of beauty, a waltzing peace,

why is my mind with you occupied?

Chopin’s left hand, a page of eclipse,

my heart sinks like a butterfly.

Published in: on 25/09/2016 at 7:23 PM  Leave a Comment  

Two Tales of Youth

Do you know this young man,

whose soul was too soon weathered?

Already two tales of despair, 

are seen in his silvery hair.

Have you heard of this youth,

whose heart had long since withered?

Like a maple leaf it dangles,

heard in his chilly vibratos.

Do you see that honourable cast,

as a wise old saint stands?

Yet his own mind he knows not,

sinking alone in quicksands.

Have you heard of this orphan,

who once played the Christ?

Haunted by guilt till this day, 

Such is failure’s price.

See that ambitious silhouette,

who is nothing but a frail spirit?

Unreturned was his ardour

that flood Cupid’s parlour.

O! Who is this man?

For the rose above all he yearns,

 Yet he fears of her thorns.

No fermata shall seam the torn.


Published in: on 23/09/2016 at 7:53 PM  Leave a Comment  

A Short Play

Life is a short play…


For ninety-six seasons a ghostly promenade,

how much salience is penned on this page?

For the rest, until my prompt death,

the story is but a candlelit stage.


I am ill, I always have been…


How subtle is this bearing of my sight.

A sound mind calls for daylight’s song.

Yet you shall turn mad if you stay for long.

I keep my comport with my hysterical cry.

Fryderyk’s ballades bring me half a moon;

velvet curtains in belladonna dye.

I stood before my nightshade friends.

this wistful air fondles my fantastical lie.

So my dear friend, stay for a little,

for our tales will by this land belittled.

For all those years are but an evening’s play;

there is no meaning nor a riddle.


your torment outgrew your weary soul.


Published in: on 12/09/2016 at 4:21 AM  Leave a Comment  

Endless Crossroads

Here again I am, at my old crossroads.

Just as I believed that her I would outgrow.

I remember well those tormenting days.

Is it not now an untroubled diminuendo?

Yet the unyielding notes call upon me.

While from the hazy tides I flee.

In forgetfulness I trail my corpse.

Have I forgotten of her beauty?

I know now that I must a path find,

again, yet I know not where she ends.

How wonderful is this ladened mind!

How pathetic is this bewildering bind.


Published in: on 07/09/2016 at 7:21 AM  Leave a Comment