Fugitive from Utopia

The hand beats the air
It’s a poet who floats up for a moment
she could take up residence
in a nest of stars, or gallop from light rays

With words longer than dreams of flight
Her hour is the silhouette of infinity
With visions that last a lifetime
Wild in her brain, needing to be written

That’s a poet, not an angel
Pale and fiery, passing by a rose
Saints wept in her handkerchief
She seeks happiness in little words

Making no promises, but rapture
And authority of visionary commentary
mystic union, she could take up residence
In the folk wedding, of spirit and mind –

The hand beats the air
She was born to be a poet you see
Dead Nefertiti’s voice flown from her mouth
which lifts you, wing-beats of days and nights

She is a fugitive from Utopia
She walks from the unforgettable sea-shores
To catch her muse, that voice
That breaks between one wave and the next

Sifting through the costume of silence
Behind the veils of time
For the pause of moments
And the whisper of the monologues of the earth.

She is blurred with loquacious tongue
Of the eulogies of countless white-haired men
Ancients that spoke with the tenderness
Of a handful of birds who visit the bird-bath of song.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/El-colibri-406816561