"Marmellade of stars for me!" told the Ancient Mariner of Time

Flowing - Founding - Flashing
desert in stormy weather of consciousness
the Ancient Mariner of Time slammed the door of destiny
barking at the old Chancellor of the Ministry of Experience

He harvested his wooden voice twice,
and gently remembered the world
his Truth inlaid in gentle marmellade of stars:

<< Panta rei suggests in charms his Majesty Eraclitus

Tempus fugit spoke up Virgilius
crawling in the peace
of his emerald lands

Be pleased of your life, no certainty hides behind tomorrow
advised his honour De’Medici,
whistling his heathen poetry
in a shining Westminster of damnation

Monsieur Sartre,
admiring the infinity hidden in a while,
curiously observed:
“Time  is too wide. They tried to full it, but He does not want to be filled. Everything you through in it just decay and disappear”>>.

The Ancient Mariner of Time
brought the new portrait of future
to the kind carelessness of humans.

He, the man who sailed the seven seas,
He, the man who smiled at the death of the Sun in the Isthmus
He, the man who yelled at the Destiny at the chasm of the World
He, the man who frightened the Ancient gods with the soft thunder of his inquisitiveness
He, the man who ruled his world from the prison of his soul

The Ancient Mariner of Time whistled its Truth,
drawing away the curtains of Karma.

<< Time, beloved enemies,
it is not a killing desert with marble oasis of memories,
it is not a storm in the bloody ocean,
it is not a furious river in its inundation of thoughts

Time is a gentle elderly grandfather
smoking his pipe and sipping his life,
snorting smoke in clouds,
sweetly watching at his nephew.

The little boy runs towards that little garden,
for him
it is a jungle of adventures:
every little hill would look like giant Everest of life,
every little stone would weight like thousand of doubts,
every run would be a marathon,
every fall would be a somber jump in the dark,
every stick of wood leaned one to the other would be a castle
every young lady would be his Beatrix
every love in arms would be his Big Bang in Universe of thoughts
The Ancient Mariner moved out,
and before slamming the door,
played his violin to the old Chancellor of Experience:

If the little boy keeps its dreams in the cathedral of his life
he will sit next to the holy grandfather
watching the portrait of his world
shining on the treasure of wisdom.