THE JOY OF A NIGHTINGALE

In the looming night,

fantasies resemble burned branches.

It is November

and melancholy seals in the soul.

What more could I ask of life?

I feel like an old eagle

that can no longer beat its wings.

Under the skin,

I have gypsy chromosomes.

I try to run away

from an adverse fate

that veils the past.

I would like to re-embrace

those emerald shining years,

and strip them of missteps.

I would like to set

the mosaic of a new existence

with newborn pieces,

move forward,

march into the universe

of the most winged emotions.

I would like to sweeten the pain

in the ambrosia of dreams.

I hear sweet melodies,

who knows,

of opalescent billows.

They lull,

they carry breaths,

symphonies of Love,

apocalypses of truth.

The joy of a nightingale

makes its way

with a harmonious moan,

among the splinters of my heart.