Sufi Poem 4 my Pearl

You've no idea how hard I've looked for a gift to bring You.
Nothing seemed right.

What's the point of bringing gold to the gold mine, or water to the Ocean.
Everything I came up with was like taking spices to the Orient.

It's no good giving my heart and my soul because you already have these.

So- I've brought you a mirror.

Look at yourself and remember me.
















Jalaluddin Rumi

(This poem is dedicated to by sweet 7bibty,
reason of my life and inspiration.
this Sufi poem brings the words
and the feelings i have to my Pearl)


br1

the scream

the scream
the spot
the light
the pain,
some veins are empty
some veins are pumping
imprecise poison
indistinct omissions of life.

the stain
the time
the way
this crane is dead
this brain in threat
with vague poison
with vague omissions of life.

and abruptly

everything stops

suddenly...

the poet is dead...


no tears...
no drops
no blood
no air.


in clay he dissipate his body...
in a meta-end, one more restless soul he became


may gOD finally bless me now...


finally in this start.


br1

The Scream - Edvard Munch

Eyes...

I'm sure of his love...
so sure of his feelings...
fragile and questionable
loving the forbidden fruit
loving the same eyes i do
Wishing the same eyes i kissed once
it is the sureness of life
it is the sureness of pain and tears.
The valse is combining with violin screams
the plateau is decadent
the dancers are dying
falling apart as snow dummies
under the strong sun
of the sad reality...
why this sureness?
Because of your eyes...


br1

A leaf of Poem

All my life meaning is You!
My devotion to our love,
our care,
the moments of deep love we passed
the senses of the moments of distance
and suffering we're passing
the rains we'll choose to follow
The forests we'll desire for us
and to our beloved ones...
that in one shammsy day will rise from our love,
those who'll be the fruits and flowers,
the fruits and the passions we planted..
the process we're building...
from the seed till the tree
and all its cycle his made out of our unique love!

love you...

br1

Elenco de ti

a vida em ti
é a força
pela jactância do momento infinito

tu bebes da vida
sonhos abertos em fantasia

crês nos pares

entornas o corpo
como vinho derramado...
naquele chão de seda
onde fazemos amor...

cortas a minha respiração
como constroes um encanto

cravas no coração
as garras do tempo
nas manhãs...

num elenco
de silêncio
e
deamor

A Polimorfia da Dança

um texto repleto de danças giratórias,
coisas que circundam...
coisas que te amam e te vestem

no palco,
bebo a tua doce demência polifórmica
desço nas tuas ruas
e
me descalço na solidão.

As vestes e as varandas
trocam ventos
que tocam tempos
de
açucar
e
vingança

dispo-me
toco-me
perco-me
traço-me
sintoma de vácuo

sintomas da doença que não vejo

sintomas da não presença de um beijo

olho em ti e vejo-te em ti


br1

The poem in you...

The poem in you
is a black voice in jazz...
somehow fragile... somehow deep and strong...
the lyrics you sing...
are words creating wind between trees...
lifting maple Leafs...
towards canvas of fruits and passion...

You have

semblants of Red...
scratches on black
you paint on us...
squares of infinite love cycles

Good morning my Love... Good morning world around!

Br1

Manuel Espinoza

Streets of unquietness...

The world around me, makes me wonder about the unquietness of my mind,
the senses,
the spoken words,
the visual smiles... your smile.

The tears that run, became normal, fluent.
The fears i run became sarcastic, surreal.

This morning i woke up in the fear of not being abble to walk,
Woke up with the notion that the world was not available for me today.
Maybe caused by the weakness of the empty space,
Maybe by the air we don't share,
Maybe by the We that I trust and care.
You...
Not being here is if i would not have an arm to paint,
a breast to feed,
air to jump,
air to share and breathe.
I am
you are
we are.

Br1

Salam, world!

A sweet good morning to my beloved... and the word

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go:
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare