Unaware of the story
I cross the glass door 
Of a quiet Saturday afternoon, 
When you take my hands 
And guide me to the library of Babel.

In the hexagonal room
A Horezu plate rests
On a Persian carpet,
A Venetian mask
Watches over the bookshelf.

We gather around the table,
And time stands still,
As the brewery's hum outside
Melts into a dream
Of Indian fragrances.

Our eyes meet,
Searching for the Man of the Book,
And our lives weaving 
in untold desires.

. We travel together,
 Our journeys within the Journey, 
Climbing the mountain 
Of imagination 
Under an unreal sky.

We share our secrets, 
Dressed in beautiful words, 
In whispers and smiles. 
But you cover your scars 
Under layers of perfect permutations.

With a world of characters
We fall in love
Amidst a rain of emotions
As your lips
Reveal a secret universe.

I offer you a chalice of wine
And I see my true nature 
In your naked heart.

The sacred circle 
Grants us freedom, 
Giving us now the courage 
To enjoy life's mysterious dance.

Marco Crescenzi