Solvy's Nest

I met you when January was fading,
and the air was frozen mist.
Your gypsy eyes sneaked through the breeze,
And I found a missing key
Of a stash where I put to sleep
moribund feelings that I hid.

Now that we're like tick trefoil seeds
Clinging to a pair of jeans,
I can see the scars you hid,
Under the warmth of your sleeve,
And I know how they heal...
It's simple as seeing your pupils.

I want you to see
That the sky is filled with stars,
When the city lights go dark.
I want you to know,
that some flowers bloom in droughts,
and they're still called miracles.

And if this love is a leaf of aloe,
I know that in a while,
Your cheekbones will look at the sky,
and that might make someone smile.

There's a stranger sitting at the table of my house.
I wash his socks, fix his mess and serve him breakfast;
Juice, pancakes, syrup, and blueberries by the side.
But he is drenched in apathy since he died;
The monotony of a schedule worn him out.

There's an acquaintance eating breakfast at my house.
He likes juice and pancakes, but keeps the blueberries to the side.
His alarms snoozed so many times before dawn,
That he's now sour and tired of his life;
Truth is that no one could save him if they'd want.

There's a friend sitting by me in my house.
He used to dance at the kitchen and eat pancakes every night.
He'd always said he'd never make plans,
and perhaps I loved him more for that;
it might be little things like that that make things last.

There is a man in my kitchen with dull eyes.
He doesn't see me anymore, maybe he's blind.
He cannot hear, he doesn't feel, he doesn't sigh.
I think it's strange that once he called me his wife.

What a noisome pestilence society can be!
When you know time is a made up thing,
and yet, it is stolen from your wings.

Where is my precious time to read?
Somewhere in this country's greed.
Where is my time to help the ones in need?
It's now a predecessor of pure fooleries.

Where is the time to contemplate?
It's hiding behind mendaciousness.
Where on earth is my time to create?
It's been scratched off from your privileges.

What is livelihood in this debauchery
that dresses in white and demands morality?
It has fancy words to offer fake felicity...
but deep down we know it's a disguise of forgery.

Her red heels tab the ground,
like the rhythm of a rhyme.
And her soles follow your shoes,
like the undertow seeks for the sand.

If my feet knew how to dance,
I wouldn't have missed my chance.
Some tangos involve knives,
but she's come with bare hands.

If you can't see what throbs within my ribs,
it's because I made you blind.
If I smile and look away,
it's because that's how I fight.

I may have let some feelings go astray,
but I well know where's my place;
Hiding behind music sheets,
for I am just the violinist

If eloquence was given to us in pills,
I wouldn't be the poet or the lyricist.
Writing verses is not my hobby or job,
it's the language of my fertile soul.

Te extraño, como se extraña el verano en el invierno;
como quien olvida la desesperación en un dédalo.
Te añoro, como se añora una tarde de primavera;
como quien rechaza la paz en la tormenta.

inebriated words are like plastic
they are easily melted with fire
senseless songs of truths and shame
they're sulfuric acid for sugar canes