To Ovid. Myths are dreams of the new upcoming Earth changes.

NarcissusWhen you walk beside pathless streams
follow their purling plush sounds
leading straight to still waters of the glacial lake,
which only reflects the same youth image,
and stealthily echoes your voice caught in the threads of my presence.

Created invisible to be;
a misplaced gods’ accident with no voice,
A true alien to the real world
and its casted projections of the boundary walls
I reside only in mountains and scary sky comets,
me, the ageless calamity of misfortunes,
the impulsive ricochet of hazard instincts spinning around the aura of your drowning image
where the self-reflection turns into a passion,
and passion into an obsession.

I know I sound like a foolish indifference
Screaming around the mountain lake same words you say
while you are on the hunt,
looking for me and sinking sick
in feverish dreams of lust vertigo,
but I am here, before you, naked to my bones
Almost breathless as the deceased corps,
Just a crushing whisper of the broken golden bough,
A very pray of the old nemesis mystery,
the story of never ended blood-rites;
those old rites of war powers and domination tales
which endless trails of tears reflect the aging old soulless world
in maps of stolen lands and caged Earth’s energy shield.

The dark sun still prevails over the wasteland
Shadowing truth and the rising change.
I know,
We will wait for the spring sun to flourish
and seeds the original life forms.
I’ll find you when the Old Earth transforms
Into the New Earth order of love.
the light of beauty itself is shadowed by your flower blossoms
woven in pathless lyre accords–
which speechless rhymes spin in swirls bloom
–golden, white,
white, and golden,
bringing back the Narcissus’ trembling glacial image.
I’ll burn my words of emptiness
in the lava eruption pathless streams
and I’ll find you at the end of the melting lake
where you wait for me enchanted in this scandalous gods’ spell.

The End

(First published Jan 7, 2012)


Caravaggio, Narcissus,  1596

“Goldmund’s last words burned like fire in his heart.” Nacrissus and Goldmund, Hermann Hesse



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