Aura

This spectrum
unfolding endlessly.
A clock
too small
for these knots,
this weight.
Choosing to melt
into this liquid music,
into this tenderness,
which will become
neither grass
or flower.
Words only.
Consoling rhythm
or weakness,
maybe.
Grace
in this sanctuary
of life.

Swiss Landscape

Fields,
green and yellow.
So beautifully
married
with this transparent,
bleeding
light.
Words,
black butterflies,
hidden.
What more is to say
about lost love,
about this tumbling
of torn petals.
Pain ridiculously
breaking the harmony
around me
to teach me solitude.
Nowhere to find
the promised
immortelles.
Only the mist
of this flute agony.
Incomprehensible.