Where all hopes have gone astray,
The black clouds of pessimism,
Inundate the quite prism,
Of a World that’s made of ‘isms’,
And won’t really ever change.
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May I offer you
Made of flowersFrom my heart, today,All the love I’ve savedAlong, life’s weary wayIs waiting,For youWith more tenderness,Than I can even say,So won’t you come and getYour Spring bouquetRoses and CarnationsAre debatingWhich will have madeIt, worth all the waitingFor this unforgettableSpring delirium, felt,Blooming in our hearts,Today.
I love when words come to me,
They sustain, my breath, my vision,My length of humanism,There is so much I want to express!Words allow me, this intimate caress.
Who decorated butterflies
A fairy from the forestWho did not want to die.Why are their wings so colorfulSo beautifully designed?Because, the Fairy was an artist,And great works of art,Will never die.
Like a miracle,
Poetry can recreateAnd transmit feelings.Something,That nothing elseCan do,A veritable and sincere,ConspiracyBetween the poet and you.
So personal, so deep,
What mirrors keep,A sigh, a tear, a secret love,Those things that poems are made of.
When decadence Strikes,
And political men,Could not put the Empire,Together again.