Böcker av Cruz Charlz dela Cruz

This is a short tale about finding the meaning of life: "There is a spacebetween the starsjust as there is a spacebetween your fingers," Brother Bear said."It is the same space that separates usfrom realizing the meaning of life." "What do you mean?" Little Bear asked, licking his paw."You have to fill this space,and only then can you realizethe meaning of life. Journey into the unknown, fight,and be happy," Brother Bear answered.After a few seconds of silence,Brother Bear recounted the following story-the story ofPrince Timotheus and the Witch.

Khaty is a poem composed of 40 stanzas. Sometimes, we feel too much love within us that there is nothing we can do but very quickly write a poem to the eternal muse; otherwise, we would burn. Khaty is one of such poems. It is a poem that the author felt compelled to write, as inspired by his muse, and for his muse - Khaty.

To the Moon is a collection of poems thrown at the Moon and back. Again and again, unconditionally. Your silhouette falls in my mouthYour silhouette falls in my mouthRepeatedlyI could not speak, in pleasureYou compel me to rise and fallTo be lost and foundIn your quivering handsYou confuse the bones out of me I look for myself in the rushAnd fainting ebbOf your sighsThat I find myself in your soulAs tonight, I love you with kissesSmoothly etchedBetween the sheetsOf your being. I will open you, petal by petal I will open you, petal by petalSlowly, amidst exchanging breathsFeel my fingers send ripples down your skinTracing constellations made of desires, erupting>Watch me surrender my soulTo every inch of your splendorWhile I examine the pages of your bodySoft, glowing, and infiniteEvery pore, every curveNothing will be left untouchedFeel how my lips write my devotions on your naked selfThe blunt confessions of a soul, in lust with divinityAnd make your body trembleWith your already trembling lipsFor I will eat you down, until your words falterUntil your sighs learn to prayAnd beneath the curious moon and the shy burning starsI will look straight into your eyesBask in every expression you makeAs I stretch you open, with my hard wicked bodyDigging into you -- slowly, passionatelyAnd without mercyWhile love, that strange mysterious love, meltsInto our sweatThen I will hold you, pull you, closer, closestOh, my most sacred -- now gasping, relishedYet we still needTo inhale each otherWith tears in our eyes, we turn our soft murmursInto deafening moansMoans that conjure the Soul of God(Because the holiest moans can only comeFrom two imperfect souls, meshedIn prayer)And then nothing -- nothing but ecstatic blissAnd the desire to be enlightenedShall beNo moreFor nothing will remainBut the combined scent of two soulsOne shared breath, and a dreamless sleepFor once, let me show your bodyWhat it really meansTo be touched: Like a moth, caressedBy fire.

Espiritus is a chapbook of poems from the Otherworldthe Neverland to the Moon and Stars. She dances with the devilEvery night, her soul leaves her bodyand dances with the devilThey hang on a string of moonlightand sway to a silent rhythmHe loves hersometimes she loves him tooNonetheless, they always dance the night awayand hold each other as if they were dissolvingSomeday, surely she will dissolve into ashes and stardustand he will have to dance aloneHis hands will miss her handsand his feet will search for her feetBut tonight is unlike any other nightThey do not just float, kiss, and bendfor they shall dance to the edge of the worldNever to return.She is burningShe is burning in beautyyet she is not aware of itNot aware that the whole worldis burning with herBurning from her lips, burningTo her fingertips, to the treesand the grass, burningto my longing armsIt is I who see her burningyet I who feel itwith every moveMy eyes are red, my heartswells, burningeach time the windstrokesher hair, burning.

Dear You, is a collection of love poems that explores the alchemy of love through its various manifestations. It contains different visions of love that unravel the deep mysteries of the heart by delving into the passions of the soul and the flesh. Dear You, is a book of love, beauty, tragedy, and romance - a book, with a heart, turned inside out. She walks with butterflies She walks with butterfliesAll around her body, And light shines upon her skin from head to toe.It must be her, Her serpentine beauty that beguiles my eyes.O, love, it is as if roses were made from her lips.See how, when she laughs, the sweetest petals bepaint her cheeks.And as this fine maiden passes by, A flower blooms wherever she treads her feet.Tell me, how does she do it?How does she make the Moon hang by the glow on her face?How does she teach the stars to twinkle in the night?Even her skin reflects a thousand moonbeamsWhile her eyes move the Sun to rise, and burn bright.O, how, love?How does she capture light with her own light?That in her absence or as when she frowns, The universe would turn afoulThat all heavens, whether day or night, Would weep the saddest woeTo unbridle her from such gloomy plight.Yet the more I cannot tellThe thoughts that court her mindBut they must be sweeter than the music of the nightingaleFor no beauty as hers should hear a tinge of whisperThat can produce even the slightest ail.But if her beauty is devouredBy the wiles of envious time, The more praises I will give, For her beauty shall for-ever liveIn my verse, in my love, and in my rhyme.I grieve for the ignorant poetryI grieve for the ignorant poetryFor they know not what they writeBecause if they only see that which I see, All their daring lines shall be called a spite.God knows, every word of beauty, Expresses none but you.O, is it not insulting, love, that they compare you to a flower?When even the meekest bud has seen what is true: "In her presence, do all flowers shy away;And how, when she walks, The greenest grass bow and praise;That even the winds fall silent and listen when she talks." And, love, when you blink, as when on our bed you lay, That's how the Sun knowsThat the night must now be turned to day.'How about the beauty of the rose?' they ask."But that's too poor a cliché." I say.Remember, how, a rose, is embarrassed when you holdSuch poor rose - its esteemed beauty drops and fades away.Decay - decay.More - I can show; but much - I'd rather leave untold.Yet, forgive them, my saint, Because I, too, am as guilty as their linesFor writing too frail a verse.But how to write?When even Cupid's pen will take a thousand times to nurse!But, this I write to tellWhat the best of quills unknowingly hold as true: That not one can tell, but can only praiseThe poorest inch of you.

The night is cold and bleak is composed of versesthat explore the mysteries of love, shattered humanity, life, and a fling with Death. I hunger I hunger for things that have a soulIf you have one, I will eat you... I know a womanwho, in order to breathe, writes a line or twoof poetry I also know a manwho dances, nakedin moonlightwith the ghostof his beloved I ate them. I hunger for things that have a souland I am starving Because when I showthe worlda beautifulred rosethey onlyseethe thorns. I killed myselfI killed myselfa thousand timesin fictionso thatI could facethis lifewithout losingmy Soul. With her arms crossed With her arms crossed behind her backtrapped in a pillowcase, >"Write a poem on me" she saidand I obeyed, very carefullyFirst, with my lips, thenwith my tongue, I wroteslowly on her canvaswhile she held me with her eyes -eyes that spread out like branches>More luminous than the evening, I tore the night to piecesand dipped into her soul"Be gentle" she whispered with a sigh, like a soft flower to the moonwhile I continued to contemplate the fire, >With my lips replete with her kissesand her breaths breaking on my skin to the sound of grace, she bit my shoulder, and pulled me up from the depths of the earth>I pressed her cheek against the pillowand watched her melting, with every thrustThe sheets, wet and swollen, >She whimpered, cryingtears of the moon ->We died that night>when I sankdeepinto her armsand drowned, she held my handto the other sideof life.

One Day is a narrative poem that tells the story of the demon, Argon, who is saved from death by Stella, an angel of God. Together, they explore the mysteries of life and death amidst the chaos between their kingdoms. Should one persist in his duties or yield to a stronger passion? Is sin real? One Day is a spiritual journey of being alive. It is a prayer and a confession of faith, with a hope that tomorrow is full of miracles. XXXVII"What is a star?" Argon wonders "if not to explode and grant a wishif not my head, fallingon her lap of dreams What is a starif not to imitate the glow on Stella's face or to repeat myself and my love as she sleeps For a star can mean a million things at once but what good is a star, even for dreamersif it does not shine where she lies For every dream can fall as a new wish can rise but nothing escapes her eyes."