Friday, January 1, 2016


Marieta Maglas


No, it is not too late
To meet each other
In oneness and equality.

We search for a viable alternative.

We've painted
The canvas of our souls
Using the colors of agony and ecstasy.

We need to pursue our dreams
Into a curve
Of love.

We need perfection.


A bleeding cloud
envisioned into the mirror
of a water-eye
is like a face losing its lines,
or like a flower withering in
a falling field.

The wind developing breasts
among three limbs of a tree
is like an ancient, African, tribal woman
dancing in a wedding ceremony,
while seeking for cheerfulness.

In reality, there are only

a cloud nascent to rain,
an eye-opening to peek the luminousness,
and a tree fighting to save
its own flowers.

Due to the mirrors,
everything looks like being
always complete, but
this exhaustiveness can be real or not.

In the mirror of the aqua,
never the sky can be itself, and
never its pearls can be extant.

In the mirror of a lie,
maybe the truth looks like verity,
nevertheless, it may never be a certainty.

But, in the Holy mirror,
The Lord is human and
the human being is divine,
and our hearts can be candles
lightning love for our Lord.


In the blue sky height, the red strange sun’s waves of light
Move here and there the painful horizon making it be mobile.
Touching the Southern Bight, they seem to reach the night,
Making the sea be more empowered and more unable.

The sea waves transgress, the diaphanous moonlight is in a mess
And cannot displace the waves of the strange horizon in the universe.
The moon's whispers, nevertheless, can touch the sea with finesse.
The stars are sky's tears, their light is really true in reverse.

At the horizon's frontiers, from another life, a ship appears
To reach the ghostlike moonlit memories on the shoreline.
The past sinks its fears into the inaudible music of the spheres.
We're on that illusory ghostly ship and you are forever mine.

Marieta Maglas

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