A flow of matter,
crossing bridges
paved with idle rivers,
of constant wars between no sides,
for kings and kingdoms rather old…
How bitter all the odds,
when knights die young
and simply for no reason,
alone with horses
mourning by their sides,
while all the humble flowers
of each season,
spell intricate mementoes
on their hides…
How strange each morning,
when misty eyes set memories
on fragile pages of honesty.
Uprooted trees of good
and bad, and life and evils,
abandoned eagles,
nesting in my chest…
Rejoice my queen,
you’ve got no symptoms
of anything to give you rest;
I’ve got some tea, you bring the branches
of something better,
never best…
THEORETICAL PHILOSOPHY 