Here are sands, ignoble things, Drop from the ruined sides of kings; Here's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

Ode to Salvador Dali...
(a fantastic surrealist)


A rose in the high garden of your desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped of Impressionist mist.
The grays keeping watch over final balustrades.


In their studios, modern painters
clip the square root's hygienic flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
chills windows and scatters ivy.


Man treads firmly on the cobblestone streets.
Glass shies from the magic of reflections.
The government has closed and killed the
ideas, how is not after the book.

Capative


Through the branches 
hesitant,
went a maiden
who was life.
Through the branches
hesitant,
she caught the day's reflection
in a little mirror;
the glow of her limpid brow.
Through the branches
hesitant.
Over the shadows
she went astray,
weeping dewdrops,
the captive of time.
Through the branches
hesitant.