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Poem

Through thinned forests where the dew of time is carried, the ancient chant of desire roams,
And shadows of men, like spirits in festivity, stretch their endless palms of wanting.
Sleepwalkers amongst stars that never slumber, searching for treasures in lands of silver,
But their hearts are locked treasuries, clamoring tribute, never a sacred obol to proffer.
In the enchanted flight of their wings heavy with "self," no sky is too high,
Yet they forget that within the tiny seed of giving hides an entire infinity.
Show me, wind, the man who is a spinner of not just hope but also peace,
That Prometheus who offers his fire without demanding the price in flesh of immortality.
If his name is whispered to me, I will receive it as a sacred talisman,
I will overturn it upon my fate like a potion that turns patience into gold.
He should bring not just the kiss of passion, but also the gentle caress of an unsold heart,
That rare man, fertile with the elixir of self-forgetfulness, where each heartbeat is a gift.
I will impregnate my fate with his arcane name, and I will weave a jewel of ended longings,
He will be the mage with palms of light, stringing pearls of sincerity on the thread of life.
A dreamer with a soul aflame, with eyes of sky - opener of universes,
Under whose impression each "taking" becomes a star in the "giving" sky.
Oh, may we rediscover the lost alchemy in our deepest needs,
One that prefers coarse gold to find the philosopher's stone of true love.
With his spells woven of tenderness and generosity, he rebirths me, to remake my heart,
He, the moon man - always full, never absent, sanctifying my wish with the divine presence of endless giving.

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