Poems

Above my head a clock,

Above my head a clock,
upon the table, many books and a cup of absynth
in the center an infinate confusion,
only I dont feel, of what matter solitude of made of.

Tongue of Fire

It was late, really late.
It was night, a shadowy night,
And the south wind was punishing
The tomb where lied
Poets’ vanity.
At the time when your warm tongue
Touched my ear,
Your heavenly breath made
My frozen vanity live again
Then the Tongue of Ice
Was turned into fire
And poetry was reborn
From ivory,
Not ashes.
Evan do Carmo

The idiosyncrasy of love love
is unexplainable Men and women,
that is what they believe:
That they had not loved nor been loved.
Poets have also fooled themselves into describing loving they did
not meet
They credit their archetype of invisible affection to the Muse, even
their unknowable, obtuse erudition, hoping to describe
An impossible love; however, by her they have not ever been kissed.
love is unsteady, thoughtless It has no past, no present
Love does not reveal or hide itself Love is a myth,
it is nothing and everything It is shadow and clarity,
at times darkness. Every so often it is grief, prison, necessity.
Love might be fate Some might call it choice
Unwritten romances , tombs of silence, deceiving door
Love is discreet, it does not speak up when it is not solicited
Although It might be a secret in its plans of chaining gods and

Lake of One Wish

While I was looking at the evening
inside deep darkness
a thought flew away
As a shooting star
and like a burning bolt
lit my whole past –
forgotten and tenebrousI saw myself in another world
in another time
where everything used to look pleasurable
There was a serene lake
and in the riverside
a couple of lovers
was cuddling innocentlyMany people had come to that lake
To see the growing childhood
Then the couples became old
and the joy were lost bit by bitLake of hope, my refuge
and I always come back to see it again
Timeless. This memory
is part of me, of my desire
But not of my existence


The idiosyncrasy of love

love is unexplainable
Men and women, that is what they believe:
That they had not loved nor been loved.
Poets have also fooled themselves into describing loving they did not meet
They credit their archetype of invisible affection to the Muse, even their unknowable, obtuse erudition, hoping to describe
An impossible love; however, by her they have not ever been kissed.
love is unsteady, thoughtless
It has no past, no present
Love does not reveal or hide itself
Love is a myth, it is nothing and everything
It is shadow and clarity, at times darkness. Every so often it is grief, prison, necessity.
Love might be fate
Some might call it choice
Unwritten romances , tombs of silence, deceiving door
Love is discreet, it does not speak up when it is not solicited
Although It might be a secret in its plans of chaining gods and delivering Titans.
Evan do Carmo

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