I see...
All stars assembled- once again
they want to bang.
In veranda I drink what
the father left behind.
His desires- my desires
on the smoke of my cigarette
evaporating shapes- the rotten desires
miserable and poor as decayed Iris tuber
split prior to moistening seven times seven.

We are the children of Love
before we become the children of our desires.
Thyme is twisting odor with hyacinth.
Two lumps of hatred- the last remained
thrown in an abyss of the miser merchant.
The Soul declares enlightenment
perpetually- in silence.
We are deaf to hear this tune.

...and the story unfolds
heavily as aquamarine brocade
when mistletoe releases its Gnostic essence.
Love has no other name- it rather
gives out of herself never losing even a particle
of her celestial being- we meet again in the Island
of honey-blood; once again we are immune
even from the most evil hexes cast by mischief

We shall now hail this lasting second
folding us with the mildness of a liquid nacre
in a dew transformed- Stand up oh Human
You too have right to Love- And you Poet:
" May the curse of all Mankind
Fall upon and your writing hand be cleft- if
You ever restrain or quit writing on Love..."