Everybody's son

Washed ashore like a seaweed,
the mourning breeze caresses
this wee body no more growing.

We all cut this angel's wings.

Cradled softly by the waves,
carried dead to the promised land,

he met death instead of mercy.
Life denied a helping hand.
His limp limbs, so beautifully tender, still.
His closed eyes kissed so gently by the sand.
Silver ripples crown his head,

- mother nature killed the pauper not the prince -
cold lips, face down, sweet cheeks... 
Look at him!
Oh my God, what have we done?

Can't you hear? Can't you hear
desperation crying out loud? 
Don't close your ears!
Cries from afar.
Cries sound near.
Relentless the day dies...

Aylan, Aylan,
we've stolen all your smiles.

Sad pic shared by millions
as if it were a meat sample,
but today, just for a day, 
this boy's everybody's son.

People weep to wash their shame away:
one more example of world pain.
That's all, folks, that's all.
Innocence lies helpless again.

His childhood dreams
- had he ever had some - drowned.

We gave him this sort of life:
three small years full of fear,

A shameful sea made of tears.

the boy dreaming of an island.

...and tomorrow nobody will remember
this child who will never grow.
My poor little pigeon!
We will never hear your song.

Aylan..., my son...,
cries Allah.

Prayers are not enough
to console our hearts.
Wake up, mother Europe,
wake up!

✍Quote of the day
"Most Christian 'believers' tend to echo the cultural prejudices and worldviews of the dominant group in their country, with only a minority revealing any real transformation of attitudes or consciousness. It has been true of slavery and racism, classism and consumerism and issues of immigration and health care for the poor."
(Richard Rohr)



Used, amused, abused and finally refused
by the muse adored, he decided to strike back
using his power. Caught in flight
and accused of plagiarism, she was condemned
to live for ever in a jewel music box
where she had to dance for days on end,
until expiring, with all his demons.
Then, death impregnated,
he sang the saddest songs in mourning words,
and, in return, gods made him see
the ugly face that love concealed.

✍Quote of the day
"Inside us there is something that has no name. That something is what we are." 
(JosĂ© Saramago) 


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✍Quote of the day
- "It is a damn poor mind that can think of only one way to spell a word.”
( Andrew Jackson)
- “thnkz 4 hlpng e wth e spllng d gwammer mestr josef”
(ward schiller)



Passion passes
--so does pleasure--
same as ashes
same as the hottest applause
same as the perfume of roses
same as seasons
same as the ripping of lashes
same as the glory of success
same as fame, prizes and flashes
same as volcano outburst
same as songs and pretty poses
same as the storms of decay
All things pass
but love rests as rosy nectar
--so does petal tenderness--
as pain traces, as tea leaves
as the sweetest memories
as wine lees, as rain freshness
as the perfume of first kiss

✍Quote of the day
"Passion is momentary; love is enduring".

(John Wooden)



Vera, Vera,
best friend ever,
look at me
performing cartwheels,
see?, I wear no knickers
to inspire our Dylan,
more than those heavenly notes 
of your angelical dreams.
the true Visigoths from Wales,
have destroyed your innocent soul,
my girl.

Drunk and naked
we share our passion
while you watch us
by the window
thinking of romantic love.
Learn what you'll never learn.
Sex and wine,
that's what he wants,
that's what we only desire.
Me so unruly, you so prudish.
my poor singing bird,
know that he loves you, his dove,
a dove whose flight is so high
he would never, never capture
in neither a single line.

Can't see your blue prince using
a heirloom as a urinal,
peeing in the fireplace?
He's rude like me.
Cruel, selfish, shameless,
I play my cards with no mercy.
Used and abused you were,
can't you see?,
why can't you see,
my very Vera?

The poet must die, he will die
between our two poles
the force of the nature,
the strength of first love.
Look inside my evil eyes,
that's what he likes,
that's what he likes the most.
Can't you see he's got no wings?
Anyway, I must confess,
he longs for your pure soul,
- so do I, so do I -
after the fight, under the moon,
when flames are gone,
when lying calm on our bed
the two of us thinking of you,
thinking of you with pretty desire... 

How we enjoy that petal face
through the embroidered light,
that purple whispered lace 
dawn drawn, shady crowned.
A monster, they say I am,
the dirty dancer, the rebel wife.
A genius, some say he is
who are we, the three of us,
resting in same dirty nest...?
Ah..., that prim tight behaviour
I always avoided and you envied.
Those twelve labourers
making me hottie in the back room.
The poet and me smoking guns.

We hurt you.
We hurt you so much.

Wales, Wales,
the pubs, the clubs,
the whaling away,
binging here, binging there,
the wild dancing waves,
the songs you both sang,
the Irish swearing, the filthy words,
and ... 
funny, graceful cartwheels, 
always cartwheels, fanning the grass,
cutting the air.

✍Quote of the day
“Inside, I'm doing graceful cartwheels in my head, knowing full well that's the only place I can do graceful cartwheels.”
(E.L. James, "Fifty Shades of Grey")