Of this craft of loving you in the extreme of passion

 

 I wove a few sentences to dismantle them in your presence. I thought the night would be my accomplice. The setting with a moon in the upper right corner, a new moon rising to seventeen. A moon ready to receive new directions and new breaths. A renewed spirit of faith and resolutions. Ending the astrological year, and so far from satisfying what I'm looking for. There are lots of sentences full of words, some adjectives and so many onomatopoeia. And of course, prodigal in injecting myself with faith, I interspersed my dreams with new metanoia. Another way to see you. And to be ecstatic. Escapism is absolutely irreplaceable for me. I need it to set the scene for me, that the poem is not content with the fallacious and the believable. With hyperbole and metaphors and an endless number of things we know. I wove them during the night, while the men were darkened among the blankets, and the stars were fixed, after the fog had cleared. I did not whip them so that they would obey me, nor did I let them go, as if it had been their birth all of the time. No, I am averse to the chaos of the world, in an interval of details and occlusions. I just let my gaze drift away, so that they wouldn't feel the bondage of linguistic oppression. I am in favour of responsible freedoms. And I knew that what I wanted to offer you would have to be governed by the self that you had become accustomed to knowing and loving in me, and not by the dense and dark clouds that dwelt in you long after you left. You wanted so much of me in you, so much that you are in me, still. Reciprocity is not always noticeable. Synastry is nothing more than the tip, the remnant of a proof that is of no use. Like the one in the laundry. Yes, make sure you were there, but at the end of the day, you can only put it in the IRS patched up of intentions, whether they are good or less. I embroidered your initials at the beginning, to make sure that such work was intentionally dedicated to you. And the letters came together with their own will, forming the words that came together for the good of the whole, in a sentence. And there were several phrases that I wove, for the purpose of proving your surrender. And surrender is the act of rescuing the truth of an office. Of this office of loving you. The eyes, both, filtered and corrected the weaving of the years of interval between what I feel and what I deliver. On the when.  This one I will decide now. And even surrendering to him was not a guarantee, nor did I intend to be, of brainwashing or ecstasy, but the total detachment and surrender of a debt that corroded my insides. It was yours. It belonged to you. My heart. And if the levity of the world sensed the purity of this surrender, it would defile the offering and compromise the whole act, leading it to absurdity and hostility  Of beings who, not loving, are enraged by the hardness of their own sick hearts. In secrecy, hidden from the enemy's spotlight, I wove the gold that was purified by the fire, in me, by the pains that life lent me. And in a careful analysis, I would have to give copyright to the enemies who beat me with swords and sneers and screams. I decide not to praise them in this way, reserving the right to thank the whole, for it was the whole that led me to you, And if you were ever the emperor of the kingdom in which I dwell, you should know that you never left your throne. That is yours exclusively. And you have been in continual wars, fought between night and day, which have crossed paths so many times in the injustice and greed of your subordinates. That demanded more and more from you. To whom you have been giving your all, without ever keeping it to yourself. You are left with your light, which is a focus in the dark world of other people's interests and megalomanias. You keep yourself pure and intact. Notwithstanding the wounds and damage of those who have plunged daggers into your back. You cried alone. You knelt at the foot of the wounds and asked for understanding. I know your pains, your challenges and your dedication. I know your mind. Who lied to you so many times. And I recognize your heart. It was for him that I wove the gold that I carry with me. To crown your cloak with diamonds and emeralds. To offer you the consolation of that crown that has always been on your head, but look well at this unusual one, blown by the by heaven: You can only see it with the eyes of your heart. That this treasure is of immaterial content. It is my infinite and unconditional love. 

It's here. I'll leave it to you and go. It's yours. I carry you in my bosom, like a mother in a sprouted womb. From the passion that I cherished, the eternal love that I have always sought has remained peculiar, unusual and abyssing. And that I found, fortunately, very early in life. And the moon goes on crescendo, dark and mysterious, welcoming the pearls debited in its honor, honoring all the priestesses who respect the dark mantle woven of stars, the scenery reveals what was hidden and you will discover that you were from this empire You have always been the king of here and beyond pain, permanent, insubordinate and absent only on the physical plane. And that, somewhere, between the silence and the chorus of the grand finale, you will vividly remember who you are and who I have always been in you. As if you had lain on one plane and woke up on a different planet. Perhaps you will find out what they were covering for you and the usefulness of the lies and tear them apart, saying goodbye to them, as if they were worn sails from the pennant mast of the ship you command. You are my direction, even if on this earth the coordinates that separate us will be very distant. And I am the icy wind that wakes you up from a demodé and anachronistic register. You are eternal and absolute love.