With The Sons of Zephyr

As the shrine of wisdom named
after the saint who became among the heathens
closed its doors and shut down its last lights
I have been driven the to pitch-black
corridors of the abandoned shallow halls.

Listening and feeling the flow of ages
Spirits howling in the midnight skyline
of the bacchanalia of lights and sounds
Never failing, ever flailing, souls craving
the hopelessness embedded in the prison of the heart.

His sons, brash yet brilliant as they are
Shakes the boughs in perfect unison
Creating the melody of the din of insanity
The melody heaved from the bosom of Orpheus
As he wept the loss of his nymph

The fluttering of feathers of chlorophyll
and the shards of crystal needles
Piercing and stabbing from all directions
Without respite, without regret.

They illuminate the images of the Titans
the idols of a polis and Piraues in one;
they appear like angels for whom we swoon
yet they are no better than fair demons
who spell out our doom.

The flaming lights of the deserted jungle
Where beasts of alloy and behemoths of refuse
Excite my feverish brain in search of the dragons
Who have laid down to rest in the earth's recesses
To rumble and shake our foundations tomorrow.

And yet, despite the mirages, aside from all pains
I still hesitate to deprive myself of one indulgence;
Of searching for the rays of pensive and gloomy Luna,
I always wish she would glisten with crescent blades
And show me the smile of my lady, my Verona.