Monday, April 28, 2014

At the top.

At the high red top
made of little stones,
the cold wind of North
blows its pure poem.
From the sun, it drinks
all the love it dreams.
Touches rocks and sings
an eternal tone.

At the hard red top,
water falls and glints,
as it runs away
down the paths that lead
to the secret stream
under deep dark trees.

In the pink where bees
lick their honey's juice,
all the stars have thought
from the night of space.
The most tiny verse
is chanted by sky.
The whole universe.

Beauty springs a name
that starts a clean light
in your lonely soul
shining in the night.

At the bright red top,
I can hear a child,
a laugh over Earth,
a landscape's smile,
all is made of life,

all is deep and kind.

                                         Jeremias Soler

To all the poetries...

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