If only I could walk
between the chiaroscuro of your irises,
light up my days
with the lights of your every memory,
if only I had the key
of that French garden
which makes the contours of your face
guiding breath for each completed painting;
if only i could stay there,
stop, hold out your hand,
waiting for your name,
your veins like purple wisteria,
your skin like peony petals,
and listen to the rhythm of your beats outside the heart,
touch the shores of the lake
and make them tremble
in the reflection of the other shore where I wait for you to blossom and we are alone on a branch of blue star flowers.
I have a strange relationship with doors. I never lock them. Rather I approach them. It’s a flaw, I think. Lack of courage, perhaps. But I happen to not close the doors. I let events do it. After all, who am I to determine who has to get out of my life forever? Generally, those who take another path do it alone. Very quietly. A step at a time. One choice after another. So, I leave it open. Because you never know. Maybe one day whoever had gone out, shows up in front of that door, and finding it open, sits down for a coffee. And if enough time has passed, enough pride, and enough pain, I’ll ask – How much sugar? My dear friend clear your mind of all “can’t”. This sentence was said by a stranger, but I think it was the sentence that had the most impact on me. It is not a very compressed aphorism, it highlights a truth without too many words. All the “I can’t / I can’t / I can’t” are just walls that we build and that don’t allow us to succeed. Success is not necessarily being rich it sucks to be successful is something easier and more beautiful, success is in the little things. We must be happy with ourselves when we set ourselves a goal and we manage to achieve it, the key is precisely this, to complete not having reached perfection. If only I could walk between the chiaroscuro of your irises, light up my days with the lights of your every memory, if only I had the key of that French garden which makes the contours of your face guiding breath for each completed painting; if only i could stay there, stop, waiting for your name, your veins like purple wisteria, your skin like peony petals, and listen to the rhythm of your beats touch the shores of the lake and make them tremble in the reflection of the other half of the sky.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 