Freedom Undesigned


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Freedom Undesigned

If your soul was born invisible
If your soul was born with wings
Where to would it roam
Above these human things
Beyond the hunger and the gluttony
This rampant consumerism
So out of touch with universal reality
So primal and prehistoric, like a teenage race
Tied to the objects they design
If your soul had freedom
If your soul had impressive momentum
What in heaven or on Earth would it need?
I have two foes in the whole world
And they are named ignorance and poverty.

The Taoist poets 


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The Taoist poets

There is some hour, where our minds meet
Like boats floating in the same sea
We see the foam and sky
The learning hour, our heart of poetry
We were not predestined to be saved

By literature, the low-bending weight
Like water, the fruit, the crowds in our womb
Our brain was another light, a bright sunrise

And it would not last, the high-time
That was the hour, when we left
Our writing in the sands
The law of our blessed ways
To follow it like a river

Up to the fields of green
The author’s paradise, is when
Kindred writers meet and talk a little

Our ears are more thirsty than our hearts
For new words, vocabularies, expressions
The seashore was something we invented
To become a journey to the future poetry.

The Last Ballerina 


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The Last Ballerina

And there’s no grave my love
That wasn’t this heart a grave all along?
Dreaming with death and fantasy weddings

And hoping to arrive at last
At life’s banquet, with her evening cup!
And there’s no end my love

That wasn’t this spirit an end in itself?
With faith enough in things unseen
To arrive with langhter at the end

And ask with a common smile
Was it enough? “What is enough?”

Ode to Personality 


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Ode to Personality

From the music summoned by my birth
I have arrived into this place
The worship of my dearest self
Not but a speck of laborious divinity

That would sprinkle meaning
In the tracks of humanity
And suffer a while with them
As one of them, with a voice

And humility born of years of poverty
And simplicity born of asceticism
And asceticism born of inner spirit
And there was nothing left to experience

Only to be, and that was a serenity
Of aging, where there was no proving
We are what we are and a passing identity
Like silver clouds with a speck of gold

The Gods knew our place in kingdoms
But we did not entertain the status
We were our own theory of originality.