The Hidden Dream

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O, hey, man who has burned my lips with the sparking flames of kisses. Have you seen anything in the depth of my two silent eyes of the secret of this madness? Do you have any idea that, in my heart, I hid a dream of your love? Do you have any idea that of this hidden love, I had a raging fire on my soul? They have said that the woman is a mad woman who gives kisses freely from her lips. Yes, but from your lips bestow life on my dead lips. May the thought of reputation never be in my head. This is I who seek you for satisfaction in this way. I crave a solitude and your embrace. I crave a solitude and the lips of a cup. An opportunity far from the eyes of others to pour you a goblet from the wine of life. A bed I want of red roses so that one night I may give you intoxication. O, hey, man who has burned my lips with the flames of kisses. This is a book without conclusion, and you have read only a brief page.

-Unknown

I was the quietest one…

Gustav Klimt – Salome

Of all those who made voyage to your port. No lewd social ceremonies announced me, nor the deaf bells of ancestral reflections.  My route was the savage music of the birds, releasing to the air my circling generosity. No ships heavy with opulence carried me, nor oriental rugs supported my body. Over the ships my face appeared, whistling in the round simplicity of the winds. I did not weigh the harmony of trivial ambitions which your hand promised, full of star-bursts, I only weighted on the floor of my agile spirit the tragic abandon which your gesture occulted. Your perennial duty was marked by the avid thirst. You resembled the sea, resonant and discrete. Over you I went, passing my lost hours. Over me, you followed yourself, like the sun in the petals. And I walked in the breeze of your fallen pain, with the ingenious sadness knowing myself right. Your life was a profound churning of restless fountains, in an immense white river, running to the desert. One day, by the yellow shores of hysteria, many hidden faces of ambition followed you. Through the waves of your tears, uprooted through the cosmos, voices leaked without crossing your mystery. I was the quietest one. The voice with almost no echo. The conscious spread in a syllable of anguish, scattered and tender through all the silences. I was the quietest one. The one who lept from earth with no more weapon than a verse. And here, you see me, stars, scattered and tender, with his love in my breast. – Julia DeBurgos