Dan Enache Poet Free verse

I Have Sometimes an Unparalleled Transparent Expiration

I Have Sometimes an Unparalleled Transparent Expiration

I have sometimes an unparalleled transparent expiration,
that blossoms in the mute soul of deceased words,
when my dragonfly swims among phosphorescent clouds,
and Don Quixote spins his mills from wax melted in thoughts.

the blades of grass burn with cold flames under my glass sole,
drilling the heels with sweet needles of crystallized grief,
it seizes me in the soul with perfumed curses like prayers,
illiterate words singing cuneiform symphonies in Chinese.

my stanzas dance on a staff of dense blue smoke,
growling to my loves a longing that dies eternally alive,
when through an amplified ear it enters like a silent thunder,
and through the other exits north of vertex transformed into blind butterflies.

my last verses are showers that fall upward toward sky,
mired in a labored black illuminated by white shadows,
their belly greedy and docile empty of hunger and of satiety,
women not understanding my interest in knotting nonsense.

my walk knots itself at night like a light that unravels,
my celebrated hope of yesterday-day-before is a dead living fairy,
to have a strict care not to get stuck in the dry mud,
in your own black white brains that flow like black-colored milk.

the dragonfly flies with heavy wings through yellow transparent lead clouds,
Don Quixote lends me mills that rotate in the reverse sense of time,
and I exhale inspirations that leave all the world's poets with too much poetry,
stumbling over words that are born old and die fresh in the mouth.

the blades of grass give me hot cold flashes like boiling ice,
drilling so superficially the depths of my heels,
it seizes me with complaint-curses blessed by holy damnations,
uncultured doctoral words placed at random with mathematical precision.

on my miserable staff of pure clean and precious dirty gold,
I growl to loves a definitive longing that changes every moment,
amplifiable ears absorb the noisy silence of verses,
exiting on the other side as original echoes without sound source.

my verses showers are dry rains that wet with burning,
mired in my labored black that shines blindly in darkness,
the feminine belly greedy refuses the satiety of eternal hunger,
not understanding the interest that knots the smooth walk of ordered chaos.

you my celebrated obscure hope of yesterday-day-before-tomorrow,
to have negligent strict care not to get stuck floating,
in the dry liquid mud from your own black translucent brains,
where thoughts die undeprived of perpetual ephemeral life.

I exhale therefore I am nonexistent in all the fullness of my absence,
my dragonfly floats sunken in yellow clouds of rough velvet,
gigantic minuscule mills rotate their immobile wings vertiginously,
and the blades of grass step on my heels with violent gentleness.

my last perpetual verse begins to end without ending,
in the transparent opaque labyrinth of thoughts that don't think,
where logical nonsense knots the static walk of motion,
and definitive provisional hope gets stuck in solid air.

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