The soul, to me, is the intellect. Before, I didn’t need it, for I didn’t need to think that much, as my whole life had only been flesh and corporeal. But now that I need it more than everš¤£, that I need to think a lot, because writing is an intellectual thing, isn’t it? I need to find my intellect againš§, thus, this poetic metaphor, an ode to the mind.
Am coming back to you on a wing of storm (an ode to the mind) A sky teared, opened A form, levitated, hovered My body trembled, raptured Everything around, fell down, so sad I tried, likewise, to reach But my mind, ran away, to a beach But still, our link, unbroken Our eye, remote, and hidden I realized, my only pleasure, taken You were lost, then thought, forsaken Oh! My feathery soul, I had to find you Wherever you were, under that sky so blue Am coming back to you, on a wing of storm Tearing my flesh, to find again your form My corporeal, its core, was attracted, and gravitated Around, man-made planets, all, illusions But now, that I have dragged myself out Am coming back to you, on a wing of storm Ready to dive inside, the cosmic ocean There where, without any attraction We'll only float, carried by the current Until we touch, and remember, what we have been. -Eiravel-
Eiravel 