(Untitled)

New year... the same questions... This poem is "Untitled" just because like that it seems the creative process is far more painful and such...

These callings of conscience
and common sense
asking me to leave tonight
are but the shocks given
with much passion and fervour
to a dead body,
which soon will waste
its first blood drop,
so vain and so worthless:
my energy and future.

I wait,
for even when leaves
seem never to detain their balancing
their breezzing stops for a second,
like a short but profound relief
and I look for it,
that moment I owe
in which I breathe, I sigh,
I do clear my mind.
I make a decision.
I make a mistake.

All the shadows appear
quite alike from the tower
where my heart lies expectant;
'cause they are all long
and slim, they are far.
Yet sooner they will come back
to reality cold and colorful,
they begin to fat and to shine,
and none of them is yours.

Oh, Father,
let me in your hands lay my doubts,
I commend my youth and inexperience
I could never cry away at your feet.
You, whom I could never claim
abandonment to, since you've been by me,
though I could never perceive you.

Let my prayers soar to your ears
and the necessity for my deeds
to be justified, while they runaway
from vain meaning and pain,
will endow you with a shape, a form,
making you reasonable enough to exist.