Dan Enache Poet Free verse

In November One Does Not Love

In November One Does Not Love

In November one does not love in November one seeks the name of magical snow,
and of the wandering snowflake that dances through air like a free spirit,
November is like a confession before the final leap into light,
before the entirely purifying birth that shines in white.
Now the dogs of earth emerge from under leaves to bring us gifts in their mouths,
strange sanctified bones seemingly made from wood of old luminous church,
now the twigs gather in our souls like sacred seeds,
in November one does not love and does not ask anything about the magical future.
This is the moon of silence and of deliverance of mysterious transformations,
secret ones that take place under the water that flows toward other hidden dimensions,
of the sigh sung in the waters of the river under the cold and magical silver of sky,
in November one does not love for in November the outlaws awaken from sleep.
From their secular sleep and they sharpen their knives one against the other silvery,
through the crystal of nature the knives of outlaws sharpening musically radiantly are heard,
as for a kind of saving order and sacred living cosmic justice,
in November one does not love because love transforms into white crystal.
We seek the name of snow that bears secret names of pure white light,
the wandering snowflake that knows the path through invisible and magical dimensions,
November is the confession before the leap into light that is pure and full,
the purifying birth that makes you transform in order to be reborn from stars.
The dogs of earth emerge from leaves like messengers of the magical realm,
they bring us in their mouths sanctified bones made from wood of sanctified old church,
the twigs gather in souls like seeds that will bloom in light,
in November one asks nothing because the answers are in silence.
The moon of silence that sings sweeter than the song the moon of clear deliverance,
of secret transformations that take place in the luminous and hidden underground,
the sigh sung in the waters of the river that flows like a liquid silver crystal,
under the silver of the magical sky that weeps tears of stars and joy.
In November the outlaws awaken from secular sleep like living guardians,
they sharpen their knives one against the other and the sound pierces the crystal of clear nature,
the knives of outlaws that sharpen for an order that always comes on time,
a saving and sacred justice that arrives always exactly when needed.
In November one does not love because love transforms into pure form,
we seek the name of snow and snow has secret names of living white light,
the wandering snowflake dances with clear destination like a free cosmic spirit,
November is the moon in which one does not love but love transforms into magic.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment