Poetically Yours

Now, it is past summer
every light filled a shady corner
it is so so far from cold December
yet, it can be poetically warmer.

it is the heat of august flames,
and the noon lounges lazy in the hot hour

some kind of time rarely sensed,
some kind of feelings, mystically resuscitated,
some sort of streaming languid, lengthy oscillation,
seen on a very large sea, without limitation,

then the void swallows any sign of voice,
of motion, less life, less existence,
death of any poetic fresh dictionary.

No vocabulary found in the stark wilderness
except flames, fires, inferno and volcanoes..

Time is dead, a postponed life, left aside
for autumn and some cool greedy shades.....

The oaks lie far in the misty forest,
i long for that green scenery beyond the mountain,,
and the wolf roaming around the lazy sheep, but fed
and happy, as if against my emotions,
me, who the heat is the very foe, the main fear
as i burn my skin for a poem to be inked, kindled,
a feeling to be transmitted faithfully to those
foes i still love, still respect and strive to show how much
humanity is more expensive than gold,
than a  new word said, than any blood that runs in our veins

....