Ink

Spilling down the ink
That spreads on my paper
Giving flesh to ghosts
Fleeing from a far
Looking to the spring
As a sole creator
Saving what is lost
Removing the darts

There stands the virgin
On the nave of my altar
One I have worshiped
In the apse of my heart
Good end to imagine
For a helpless harper
Whose music is whipped
By the darkness of an art

That soaks the leafs
Of his meaningless existence
With savage grief
and perpetual scars

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Haunted Boat

Living on a boat
Haunted by the winds
Spectres and shadows
Of great times unfolded

Walking down a road
Where little stones bring
The tears of widows
To the past deported

Have I not lost
The path of my illusions
Have I not crossed
The stairs of retribution

Let the flowers grow
On that grave of stone
Let the river flow
Over the dead bones

And hide forever more
A past to be unspoken

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Senseless Hand

One breath of spring
Brings the scent
Of good times
Sun light it brings
To the bends
Of the night

Only an old tree
Can understand
The thick flesh
That can’t feel
In the palm of the hand

Long has it been
Since that skin was feeling
Long has it been
Since was stopped the bleeding

And the dirt has robbed
The senses of the hand

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Fly Darkness

Long has the bird
Above darkness
Flown swiftly
Far are the hirds
He harnessed
In safety

The evil of the earth
Stirs the fear
In his veins
Upheaval in the birth
Of the dreams
That wanes

The sun is no more
The moon is kept
Hidden from his sight
In the days that he wept
The times of the light
He wished to see once more

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Black and Black

Stranded does the forest
Stand with no knight
To defend the light
And heed the storm

No shield to harvest
In the face of a might
An agonising sight
robbing blood of its warmth

Slain is the lamb
The shepherd long gone
Is not there to defend
With the strength of his hand

The innocence that he rules

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The ticking Needle

Heard again
Is the sound
Of the ticking needle
It’s the man
That rebounds
Breathing and alive

Looking then
Deep profound
Subdued and defeated
Now he stands
On a ground
Of challenging strives

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Uncertain Path

It is no longer love
That shores up the mountains
It is not emotions
That trouble the mind

The train runs above
A path so uncertain
Forsake all devotion
In a past left behind

It is the peace of old days
That misses the forest
No storms of winter
Can worry the land

In so many ways
Can the seeds we harvest
Like the tip of a dagger
Make bleed our own hand

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