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The Seasons of the Sun


I am in the shadow of that reality
that will become existent.

I feel the solar spring
when the glaciers
continue to melt at the poles.
The words are alive;
they don't burn yet,
but still, I prefigure their blistering heat.
I do know that God is watching over us.
He is watching over everything
and over the disoriented people
needing to find some love around
when their hearts are
empty or emptied.

Meanwhile, the sun orbits
its own hot star;
this rotation is egg-shaped;
makes new spirals
to blow the best out of it.

Meanwhile, the earth speeds through its
northern summer quarter
of its revolution.

In the summer of life,
the liturgical Sundays
become concave
to bulge the thoughts outwardly.

'Tis green outside when the wind
becomes a force to
whip everything around.
I hear the crunching gravel sounding
around that Church of St. Peter
where the people don't enter
to laugh, but to listen to The Lord
while the priest tries
to catch up with
old words that have been ignored
so many centuries.

These parishioners
have always dreamed
of hiking up a spiritual mountain
to purify the true inner self.
They gain a sense of each individuality,
which is always unique.

From time to time, this earth is
in the shadow of the sun-
'Tis not about that darkness
belonging to those trees
reflecting the mood of their forest.
There, the mushroom grows up
from a seed of self.
Ban Chao Gang Moo unveils their secret.
Ban Chao Gang Moo is not a forest.

People still try to mess with
the powerful devil
in the coming Apocalypse.
This Apocalypse is hot, but not green.
It is solar summer, not winter.

In winter, the glaciation comes.
'Tis about that glaciation
freezing everything,
especially those waves
''of the sea driven with the wind and tossed''-
freezing, not igniting
the shadow of the life.

Poem by Marieta Maglas

by Marieta Maglas

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