Photo of Nils Leonhardt at Unsplash
Holy Wednesday
If I walk through that door of light,
I'll see a face that I miss
and that I mislaid one of these afternoons
through that portal.
She's coming to meet me,
whistling to me,
whispering,
with his bright eyes,
tells me
about a fractal land site
where meditates the time without moving.
A restrained cry for the loss
causes more noise in the Universe
that a battle cry
and both up and down,
the end makes us shudder.
The path of the water that comes out
from my inside it's painted green:
the look, the alpha, and the omega,
of this Holy Wednesday,
that begins Easter.
In the passage of Light a melody
sounds sad looking for joy
in a monochrom reflection.
The shadows are illuminated
and the end makes us shudder
in a penitent purple
that arises only in the mind
of a inmolated lamb that trembles
in view of the judgment
that weighs on his head,
the price of becoming eternal.
There is stillness in the noise
of the crickets.
A sacred silence slips in
by the painter's patina
that turns on the light
between the branches.
on the tongue of the water mirror,
a path is opening-up
through fragmented time
with my spirit already in it
green of waiting,
feeding on prequels.
If I sigh at the river's edge
and in my twisted neuron network,
a sleeping voice will
wake up
to tell me about the dreams
and the realities we dream of.
The feathers on my wings,
today withered,
explain to the voices
that my blurry flights now
gave color to more than one twilight.
Everything comes together on the inside,
the voices, the dreams of lost lives
and those of the deaths suffered.
The landscape is covered in mourning,
water and ash
in the blink of an eye.
Hands flutter in the flame
like butterflies around a fire
raising the burn alerts
for a repeat offender, Judas.
The ubiquitous purple postpones
a lie that, like a tide, comes and goes
and every time he brushes against me,
It brings out a cynical self
who ends up always smiling.
The spirits that speak
the hearts in the being of Origin,
whispered to me that I should dream
fand the face that trembles without flesh
on the other shore
from the river is screaming at me to live.
Mosaic of disembodied perception,
I can't see out of my head.
That's why I get to moments like this:
I swim comfortably in contemplation,
being a dim light, when the thought
makes the soul vibrate
in a body of serene water,
and although sometimes my innocence
gets caught up
in the masks of people
who have nothing inside:
without heart, without creed,
without compassion and without love,
I still believe.
09/04/2020
In response to 
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