The Dove

A thought is a warrior

And reason is a worrier

That's the crux

A dove sings "Fiat Lux"

Those who carry to the cross

Have a dove inside.

They never want to count it as a loss,

so they secure it as they stride.

In the perfection of the Night.

Even if the Cross is sometimes used to hide.

This little dove cares.

Even if it often tears,

tears you from the inside,

but it's white.

It's a kind of everlasting youth,

it's the thing which makes you go through.

You need to see the dove in everything,

also in the things with spurious wings.

And sometimes it needs to cry.

But Love comes thereby.

The Art is to see the dove in every one,

who comes along.

And sometimes the dove is singing,

sometimes it's winning.

But if it flaps it's wings,

the whole Universe feels and sings.

As it's within.

As it's Everything.

It's Like a warm Rain late in the Spring.

This dove makes you fly in descry.

If it flaps it's wings,

I guess all out of grace,

it breakes the winds

and the ground vibrates.

Or at least the lake where Petrus fished,

I guess he wished.

But eventuelly

and at some point he got carried away.

As all reason was thrown over

and the water was raining down on the memory.

A symphony, while watching the Stars.

And I hold on to the Bars,

as they Secure the Dove.

They are made out of Love.

Like the sky is holding on to the Stars,

just for the idea.

The idea of the Ave Maria.

The Aftershock.

The idea that the key fits in the lock.

Dreams are walking on a carpet of Stars

and I'm looking for the reason and some sense in an absurd reportoir besides the Abattoirs.

I gift my Time to the devine

and Build myself a Shrine

of thoughts.

Full of white spots,

of Hallelujah shots.

And In the Place I once found God,

there is seen a straying Dog.

And there is nothing, just a rushing.

And I find a dove,

sitting on a Cross, looking at everything from above.

It all makes Sense in it's effulgence.

In the Night a Sension of Attention

It all makes Sense as recompense.

As if you just have to trust

and to believe.

Like the dove is a relieve

from carrying the Cross

over all the flaws.

To the stars and to protect,

The luminous flux.

To carry the cross to ressurect

"Fiat Lux"

As the Dove sings,

cause in the cross, a little bit of life was hollowed in.

If it flaps it's Wings,

the Universe feels and swings?

It's Everything.

Hopefully.

But I guess it's like a dream I used to see,

in which I just put in the battery.

As if it then makes all the sense in it's refulgence.