A Poem to my Beloved

If I had to lie down
Onto the black hearse instead of our love,
I would agree to die right away,
But hope is the last thing to die,
Yes, my golden one, I am living with hope
That Your tear, like the beautiful moon,
shall shine upon each letter,
each word, comma, exclamation mark and period of this poen,
as if it was the most honest of prayers.

My prayer is loud;
Like the prayer of an abandoned derelict;
Like the prayer of an abandoned child,
Like the prayer of a missionary in the valley of horrible hunger;
My prayers are searching for a sacred sanctuary,
To enter the cathedral above all cathedrals;
To enter your heart.

Just like a derelict is searching for bread crusts,
Just like a believer is searching for his communion wafer,
I am searching for Your kiss.
This prayer is my last hope
That Your tear shall slide onto my tear,
Into a world that is entirely ours;
A world into which the aureola of all human desires is born,
A world into which love is born.

In the darkness of a lonely night,
I am finishing this poem
With an inexplicable hope
That the time to say goodbye isn’t here yet,
That our love shall not end on a black hearse,
That it shall live forever in our wonderful world,
In our hearts.

by Walter William Safar

A poem to mankind

When I love,
I fly with the wind
Into the magic land below the rainbow of the human heart;

When I love,
A tear is a blessing, not a curse,
Because those who never cried don’t know what love is.

When I love,
Even death removes its wistful black veil from the face of life
To show its beauty to the world.

When I love,
Even sad memories – wandering the valley of death
Like a purple shadow –
In the magic harmonies of Scottish bagpipes
Find their home,
For memories to guide them from soul to soul of those they held dear.

When I love,
I fly the world in a sunray
To kiss with distant solitudes in darkness,
So that love might spring in darkness
Like a flower for a world in love;

When I love,
Even the saddest of songs spreads its tired wings
Like a young butterfly,
To fly around the world from heart to heart
Like a message from invincible love;

Oh, Lord, when I love,
I admit: I shall sing even in death’s lap,
Like a violin sings when held by the old maestro
While he walks towards his demise;

When I love,
I am a drop of rain on the trembling face of a desert rose,
Illuminated by a jet of sunlight and the smile of a rose,
I kiss the face of Earth
Just like a child kisses his mother’s face,

When I love the world
Like a love the woman of my life,
I lovingly look at Earth with the eyes of an astronaut from deep space,
And at mankind like a poet looks at his quill.

When I love,
The verse is my homeland,
And the poem is mankind.

by Walter William Safar

A Poem Of Love

Darling, I shall never, never forget
the excitement
your heart had awakened
in my heart.
How gentle it was, 
my heart was nearly breaking, 
full of elation
from the mixed up feelings of pleasure, 
pain, joy, pride and modest sorrow.
How much mercy the Lord had bestowed
upon me, 
allowing me to dream of those days, 
when we imagined
a better world together, 
how to defeat poverty
without changing the direction of the wind.
You know how much love feels
for the destiny
of mankind, 
how should I tell you? 
(if I’m not wrong) that love is born, 
without becoming, 
just like a poet
who spent his youth
in the empire of classical shadows.
Darling! I am writing this poem
in faithful service to love.
It is lightened by the sun, 
which might shine its light
on all my thoughts of happiness, 
in which we shall spend
all of our future years together.

by Walter William Safar

A Port Of Refuge Agleam With The Aura Of Love

There are so many dear, yet sad people patiently waiting for love, 
Like a woman mourning her sailor.
There are so many hands caressing verses of love poems, 
Like an old missionary caressing lines of the scripture.
There are so many salty and mute tears, 
And so much loneliness springing forth from tears, 
And so many brotherly solitudes, 
But solitudes, still.

Though I’m growing old and grey with every step I take
On the path of dreams, 
I still follow the call of love.
You can find me in your dreams, 
Because I can find you in mine, 
And the gates of love are always open, 
As are the gates of faith.

I heard the nightingale sing, 
And I heard her heart sing, 
I saw a falling star
In those yearning eyes
That watched me timidly, 
Calling me to her embrace
Like the face of an angel agleam
With the aura of the Lord’s mercy.
I am no longer able to think –
Or sing a song –
All I can do is blindly follow her heart’s song.

Might this be love, finally knocking on the door of my lonely heart? 

Without flowers, 
There are no songs of the beloved, 
And her soft and fragile hand is picking a flower, 
Is she picking a flower for me? 
A flower sprouting from a lonely tear? 

Lit with the reflection of a paradise dawn, 
Her pale face glitters behind the opaque veil of yearing, 
In the secrecy of her yearning
My yearning is hidden, too; 

Oh, yearning! … You sail of life, driven by the icy winds of solitude, 
You know that love voices itself in a language
Comprehensible to all people around the world.

Life, here comes your tired captain, 
Your tired captain is arriving in the port of refuge; 
Where love awaits dressed as a pauper and a rich man, 
Where love shines in her mild graceful eyes
Like a lighthouse agleam with the aura of the Lord’s mercy.

by Walter William Safar

Against All Streams

My dear mister banker,
You want to push me into the wild river,
To swim downstream,
But I’m a strange kind of animal,
My hunter,
I’ve always been swimming against all streams;

When death emerges from its judicial seat
To be kissed by solitude,
The morning shall start, like a pilgrim,
Towards the new day.
In the heart of the building made of marble and gold plating,
A song will echo in praise of mister banker,
Who weaves his web in his silky empire
For to catch the unwary;

Mister banker is a very cunning hunter,
He knows all the carnal ways of the world,
And he will always let others run ahead,
Because he knows that each and every road to hell
Is paved with gold;

Yes, mister banker,
Yes, and you too, mister hunter,
You who shamelessly and without remorse
Tear the wings off angels,
As if they were but annoying flies,
To throw them into the wild river of life,
To float downstream, like your prepared trophies.

Inside the marble court the game of life and death begins anew,
The scent of perfume mixes with the stench of sweat
Pouring from the salty pores,
So the fish may sizzle all the better in the fire of terrible greed,
When the turnstile of life starts turning,
I know, mister banker,
That you shall tower above it as a croupier,

I see the glow in your eyes.
No, mister banker,
It is not a bright and happy eye,
It’s the fever of a trophy hunter!

I would like to entice human tears from your darkness,
I would bury all authority and greed deep into the ground,
I would dig the dead emotions out of the soil,
But you are still looking at me as if I was a trophy buck.
I still won’t give up!… Yes, mister hunter, I might be dirty,
An outcast to small and big fish
Who always swim downstream,
But there is still spite inside me,
Because I am unbribable witness in the wild river of life,
Who will always swim against all streams!

by Walter William Safar