Francisco Luis Arroyave Tabares

In days this is sparce no verses I could write
Nor find words a little close to my thought
And not an art or other way so right
Could display well what my heart liked or fought.
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I belong to the present century
Although I think it is soon to forget
And give the classic mind an injury
By neglecting fine forms without regret.
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There are many ways that are more artful
In which my love for life I can rehearse 2
Changing in this way what has been adverse
Into those forms that please the beautiful.
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Cruel tidal waves rise and fall and combine
To destroy little by little my shore
Where I grow shells for pearls that I adore
And which to match her teeth and eyes I twine.
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I feel the orby loneliness get close
But it is a prelude of harmony
And a chance to lose the monotony
That always piles and is hard to dispose.
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If any of my dreams can reach a land
Or many of them are worth some glances
While my closeness to this world advances
And I see rainbows by an ocean's strand.
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I am awaked, half way to the midnight
Carving in my thoughts figures out of time
Floating in mist that pales the moon just right
And watching my muses glide on some rhyme.
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I

I got to see love melted in a sight
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Gaia swashed me with waves of compassion 1
When, between many, I gathered love
As she knew that time would wear my hot passion
To look instead for silent royal dove.
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Some moment ago (as the eons slide)
When the changing rocks were not yet breathing
And trees during winter were not dreaming.
Of seasons that lull with blossoming tide.
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To the old days I went to gather seeds
Plus things that still come to my memory
Of places that once contoured history
And now are shadows that some sigil reads. 4
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Will thoughts pierce further than laser anger
After enough summits on earth to pray
For understanding that people can say
Will bring that peace to our way much stronger?
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We know that a small part of the money
The world uses for its wars without aim
Could be used to bathe with milk and honey
Humanoid ghosts that walk on a bones frame.
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An explosion of genes will bring our doom
If we do not expand our consciousness
Because even if we think there is room
We are not aware of our selfishness.
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We please our yearnings with well known decors
And live dreams that others had in the past
But we have grown to the present records
By killing landscapes to the every last.
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Manufacturer of selfish manners
Man is offender of the wilderness
Which helped him more through ages of darkness
Than these promises of city planners.
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Fastuously we think to be human
Is condition enough to control fate
Ignoring that we are a poor layman
In skills for which other species well rate.
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Tides of fish bearing their accusing looks
Periodically sadden our landscape
Because human venoms crueler than hooks
To their essential flood often escape.
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When in the dry season the rivers sear 1
A confused Arethusa starts to Chide 2
And looking for another place to hide
She wanders restless through the mountains near.
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With those altars of destruction rising
I see shadows of civilization
While citied ways ask for consummation
Forgetting black fogs they are inviting.
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