The shadow of the leavesFrom a garden over the fenceSlowly set in motionBy the wind of spring Beauty struckDoubt has vanishedWalking through lifeOn such a
Étiquette : poetry
Night Sand
The limitations of your mind are the bricks against which you keep banging,without necessarily knowing it,Bricks that will eventually crumble down.Walls and floors alike block
Night Nutriments
Unspeakable sounds decimate the forests of my nights.Ancestral inhabitants, friendly residents,Flee towards other dark fogs of silence. Acid rains of the unsaidDrip through leaves and
Anger Master
Stories teach me that anger,Anger that holds sleep hostage,Is also my master.A cruel, radical, uncompromising master,But a master whose teaching is unfathomable. Anger shows me
Zen Meditation : Taking Off
Pelvis opening,From the back, above the cushion,Like a spreading pair of wingsLike an origami sheet coming back to its fold. Knees anchoring, at last.Femur turning
Soft Slope Of Death
Lying down, lethargicIn the soft sofa of thoughts.Limpness embraces me,Fed and wateredBy restless screensShooting hallucinatingSensory darts. Will I be able to leaveThe jewelry box,The greasy
Abounding Existence
The gift of existence, existing at last — the permanent giftFrom the night of gracesAbounding existence The grace of laying down all swords and shieldsIn
The Names of the True God
It is both sad and unexpected to realize, at the dusk of one’s life, that the god we have been told about, the one we
Glowing Threads Of Upbringing
Bringing up a child, means to plant the smells, tastes, savors in the soil of their consciousness.When it will later unfold the fabric of life,
Zen Like Water
Collective gesticulationsSlow and glittery movesImitating a myth,Worshiping habits, This is not ZenThis is not my practice. Simply sitting ?Very little sitting, and scarce simplicity.Paintings to
Stealing Back Time
Banging my head in your narrow minds is suffocating : I need to get out.And I’ve withered long enough in the dullness of your aspirations.Your complacency
A Wolf, At Night
You’re blowing the squalls of magnetic particles,they infiltrate my mind, steal me from the presentthey flatten my inner landscapes to the boardwhere the absence of
Tickles In The Forehead
It had been a long time since the ticklingBehind the center of the foreheadHad not sprung up in the course of Just Sitting. Small gravel
On The Battle Shore
Pieces of meMyself, in pieces,To save the ship from sinkingWhile crossing the layers of darknessI have no idea how it finally reached the shoreOf the
The Prayer Of Milare Solsimi
Guitar strings blow a magic bubblewhere useless and destructive wordscan’t get in. It only takes a few seconds for the bubble to take shape.I wish
Notes & Silence 