The song of the frogs
Your fear should not stop my hands
when a caress is near my fingertips
ready to explode crossing your hair
like a far firework, the echo of a lost holiday,
the remind of a past happy joyful time.
Your interrogative eyes should not
stare at me like I was the foulest of all fools
the one that does not know the weight
of the intrinsic value of a blast of words
said just in a moment to be left in the wind.
Heavy inheritance of a world of illusions and
disillusions, all covered with the lightness
of a not hidden superficiality of aims and hopes.
Come here, come here summer of despair !
light of dead drunk fireflies all around escaping
when a stone falls in the pond with a deaf sound.
Do you hear the frogs singing their dissonant song?
You so close yet so distant, caring at times
but always closed in your own mystery.
Come here, come here don’t leave me waiting
In the middle of the seagulls’ noisy meal.
My half lifted hand insecure in a caress,
withdraws in its mortified attempt.
I do not try to understand the reasons
I do not wonder anymore and yet I am hurt,
I should not but I can’t help a subtle pain,
crawling sneaky along my veins,
coward, when I am absent minded
reaching for my heart and there stopping,
stubborn catching my breath
and taking my words away.
And you , you observe me with your
inquisitive glance like I was something exotic
coming from outer worlds and from outer galaxies,
with my charge of ironic too subtle humor
and unexpressed enigmatic poetry.
Come here, come here months of lazy intimacy,
talking like we were the only ones on this earth,
like we were the only ones to share a secret.
The unveiled truths of a cheap honesty,
the last mirror to seize the real look
of a thousand remodeled fake beauties.
Photographer and words Arialee Miles