The Parade

In a triumphal march I am wending my way
to the glorious solstice day.
I stride cheerfully acclaimed
by the boisterous sparrows.
Aligned along the road, the trees
present blossomy boughs.
In a blue uniform, with the medal of the sun
tacked to its breast, the sky salutes me.

Hypostases

The sun rays are disclosing you,
shelling your soul
that you desire to forget:
feeble, unfledged, an owl hatchling
hoping away, with blind eyes,
from the naked light of the day.

You must protect your soul against
the long solar spares
deflected by its deceiving carapace
as by a shiver betraying your presence.

You must defend your soul against
the cruel star that can sublime it, leaving
the reminiscence of it in your palm,
like a farthing flung to the beggar.

Your soul only unfolds to the moonlight
by which it was born.

copyright © the author, 2000