A sinuous ray of alabaster light devours me
in its compelling glow. My hips sway, bells resound.
The butterfly beats against the fire,
and the veils gradually fall away.
A flame envelops me and I lose myself in it.
A morning star blooms among dunes of spring snowdrift and resists the onset of summer like a white glint of ice.
A talisman in an elusive form,
slowly rising from the land like a celestial flower,
then disappearing in a silver flash
like a fish into water, it flickers with prismatic,
A bee caresses the red velvet of a flower.
Petals linger between concealing
and revealing like lips gently parting. In the secret, dizzying excitement of a forest encounter,
twilight cascades through pines like rain on lashes.
A sweet powdery blast. Breathlessly, restlessly,
it insinuates itself between the sheets
and ascends the curve of hips.
Joyful as a serenade, secretly cradled in your chest.
The restless soul craves a romance
that burns like wild fire,
the grip of leather that accelerates the heart,
the piquant warmth of spice.
Night-blooming jasmine yields to Mediterranean winds, unfolding in the bittersweet air.
My mind is the universe inverted, expanding infinitely. Full of energy and ultra modern, I ignore limitations.
My trace lingers in the air as I move through the city.
Contrasts in balance: an ethnic quilt that grazes
the cement floor of a New York loft,
the glow of neon against skin.
Almond blossoms, their dazzling white
like the skin of milk, smell of goodness,
freshness, and newness. The lulling embrace of the anima mundi is a revelation to the senses,
a sensual awakening. Fragrance of marzipan.
I sense myself, accept myself, tend to myself,
pursue myself, and I escape.
I rise up to the moon as my ultimate destination,
onto a guiding star, at the very limits of my destiny.
Exhausted, I keep my distance: a smoky silhouette, flower in hand.
Weaving strands of aroma,
a work of style and stunning elegance.
An analogy of thought, the intertwining strands of a braid, a subtle signature that repeats itself like a batting eyelash.
Sailing upwind past bays and coves.
A plunge into the blue, sea foam on waves.
Saltwater breeze on the skin.
Princess skin, mandarin eyes, a languid flower,
brocades and china.
Alchemical fusion of witch and child.
Lacquer screens and Turandot.
Puccini in Paris seduced by Huysmans.
I pirouette atop a golden carpet:
rose petals shaped like diamonds,
waves of amber defining its edges,
with subtle swirls here and there, shimmering sweetly.
Scents and memories inlaid, captured in the last rays of summer.
An incessant nocturne,
the repeating note beats an eternal melody.
There is no distinction between the sacred and the profane.
A single embrace binds the spirit and flesh.
Heart and soul instantly unite.
A path in the woods: every step a trace,
an elusive impression, a hidden presence.
Rolling in the grass, among the wet leaves,
the bark of sleeping oak.
It does not see but feels, does not speak but beckons.
I always keep a flower on my bedside table,
like a novel in floral form.
I lose myself in the intoxicating intensity of an iris.
In an azure rhapsody, nocturnal shades envelop
the world in blue.
I cast my net in the past to catch my present.
My identity defies definition.
Hypnotic acrobatics, existential pirouettes.
A layer of silk unveils and veils the silhouette.
In the seed of a flower, an antidote to boredom and torpor.
Springing up like a fountain and gurgling cheerfully,
a frog jumps unexpectedly into your lap.
The secret garden of the Thousand and One Nights
awaits its guest.
Prepare floral embroidery for him.
Glowing embers after the blaze.
Resin and rose, a powerful blend.
The smoking nostril of a bull,
adorned with flowers like an Indian painting.
Night at the far ends of the day,
lava lapping the volcano’s rim.
With unrestrained beauty and steadfast virtue,
sinuous movement rebounds, surpasses, leaps.
In one fell swoop, the mane shakes free an arch of dew.
From the pedestal to the sky in an instant.
Coasting and rising, dancing and twirling:
atop a magic carpet,
suddenly everything is within reach.
I hear the rustling of plants, silk, rivers.
An intoxicating energy and clarity of thought
radiates from the lotus position.
A rondeau of aromas and flavours, a lively waltz,
and countless pirouettes fill a lush winter garden.
Fertile ground for delicate, lovely
the conservatory hosts pretty ladies all in a row,
exotic specimens and darling debutantes.
Exotic nostalgia, from bazaars to bistros, recalling the colonial atmosphere of an officers’ club overseas,
a journey guided by the slow breath of time,
an undated postcard, a suitcase abandoned
on the train to Darjeeling.
Gold masala and spice,
the nomad spirit released from a magic lamp.
Where dunes meet forests, Africa and the Orient embrace,
wrapped in a cloak of sea breeze and desert dust.
Bloomed waterfall, pink cloud that invades the flowerbed.
Corbeille of flowers and fruits at the window, crowns of pines, soft light of a new morning. A tangle of hands, a look from under the pillow, we stay embraced in the bed, our secret garden.
The hunter’s bow, the cord that takes root,
the sound of the horn.
My deep voice is a tree, each syllable a branch.
I dig my feet into damp earth after the rain.
The enchanting caress of rough bark.
Ambitious and ambivalent:
if the heart languishes, the mind reels.
We happen upon a hidden courtyard,
surrounded by evening lights.
In the centre of Milan, I take your hand.
A thousand intriguing notes comprise the tapestry,
a path paved in flowers and colour.
A synchronised arpeggio, each petal a chord.
A first taste of a bountiful harvest.