The mystic I and I shout: Untouchable, all those I love betray | Thoughts Hub

The mystic I and I shout: Untouchable, all those I love betray my hands, nail my heart to the wood of the cross, separate me in the autumn without violets, and dedicate the last of the tear-laden tears, to the songs, will it be time for me to come back from the blazing grass of the morning with wailing? Or to pull a cactus flower, which is almost drowning between the nails of drought? To heal the heart of my melancholy and schizophrenic poet, and all the symptoms of rhymes?

Ah, will it be time for me to repeat in the fall to women who have married my intentions to subdue the roar: Close them to my father - if I call an expatriate of passions - you are my eyelids, to hear the chirping of the circling birds around me, and to see what radiates on my hands of gold, sky, poems, poems, or poems?

I will not believe myself, I will memorize by heart the long way back that was engraved in my blood, and I will erase the details of the desire of some poems to run over the stars, a satisfactory passion will overwhelm me with the smell of rock and saffron that grew in the mouth of metaphor like grass, no I will not leave some flowers to eat me. A house of poetry for a seductive woman to perform ablution, a little water in which nightmares ignite sadness for no reason, is it because insight showed my hand to grapes blown by foxes, now a phoenix feather carries me to the final destination?

The mystic is me, and that is my first prophecy, I say to a kiss of stone in the wall: Be my rose or my clay water, and the fire of my white enticement in the pain of marble, the mystic is I, and this is my life and my way of following things, or its mystical and pastoral lament in the night of exile.