The honey gates were opened wide for other silent blue…
All merry clouds, there seemed to play, but just a few
Turned their white horses towards the glass vestals,
While tired birds stopped in the air just near old portals
Shinnning in the hands of the light: red and pink;
But all these were just a sign or maybe a link
For other pure springs, for other horizons far away
From the desert of the mirror and its shadows grey.
In the blue eyes, the shade of other sorrows sate:
He was born too early for gods; for men too late…
The Fancy`s Fairy knew that morning`s mournful story,
How lions killed the martyrs giving them much glory.
It`s mist around, but the breese is laughing near,
Called through the trees with crystall voices dear;
The rainbow rested there prisoner of old tomorrow;
The rain forgot the crying sun and stopped its arrow.
The knights with hearts and crosses on their garments,
And wise men fleeing from the world's fierce sentiments,
Tried a life, as miserable pelerins to find the sacre place
Where people, angels and invisible birds started the race;
But there, broken ailes between the red altars suddenly stop…
There, from the stones still grow strong buds of good hope;
The grass dreams new wings to cover the heart:
The man lost himself if too honest, or too smart…
But the sun pushed coward growing so yellow!
Only the saints still live a time in golden hollow:
They share pure springs, and glass horizons far away
From the desert of the stony heart and its clouds grey.
Then, they get off slowly from their hyeratic pictures and go
Through the dawn`s tears, to paint with the brush of the rainbow
The heaven` s peastures with scent of incense
And… mealt pinch in which old shadows dance.
Tears and saints rested in that yesterday of sangue…
Why, tyranns, kings and noble men cut their tongue?