Germina Melius

From the gloomy dust, I rise from Hades' spell to see the sun's glory on a splendid morning.
The inner man greets me.
Rise from the clay that binds you in the gutter's belly.
Rise to see your Father's radiant face watching the human soul.
...

You walk on moons, but I see pitch, and unpaved roads.
I walk on the crust of land, and envy ships swimming on water.
The world walks on its hurting soul, and on ancient bones.
Children bare feet, travel on unpaved roads,
...

Her father's hands extend beyond the land.
Her hands are sealed like the mouth of his vault.
Trembling with every grasp, his wrinkled hands
will never find their youth.
...

When I die,
bury me in the sky.
Angels will read my eulogy
The Son will smile,
...

Removed, the hands of dark clouds obstructing my vision,
rolled like a scroll to the edge of the earth.
The way where I walk is a slippery trail.
I stumble in my path with eyes set on that ball glowing in a distance.
...

When the sun is fading like a flower,
like spring forgetting winter on a summer day,
enjoying grape juice or ice tea,
thinking of Basho writing another great Haiku,
...

When the sun is a fading flower,
spring forgets winter on a summer day,
a taste of grape juice or green tea,
Basho recites his Haiku in an eco-green assembly.
...

Weary sun
To the moon
Goodnight!
...

1.

Walking away
hand in hand
...

There goes the sun
dragging the moon
twilight
...

Look! spring
another chance
to bloom
...

1.
stars squinting
blinded by
the blooming moon
...

my feet on the grass
to the careless herd nearby
still delicious
...

The sun is talking
the heat
of politics
...

1.
walk before the moon
nature's gloomy face
darkness shrinks the light
...

1.
Mona Lisa
twilight smiles
at me
...

bring
a solvent coat
hell winter blazing
...

heard the doorbell
the rebel stormed away
grandma erupting
...

a hot-headed volcano
refuses
to calm down
...

The literary parasite feeds on my brain cells absorbing my energy.
My literary ghost whispers my words.
Every time I read your poem, I hear my poem calling.
‘Mother! ' You bore my literary soul.
...