What does it poetry means?
I can’t reach the peek of feelings
but my mind speaks so fast.
I can’t be a bodyguard of language
but my tongue is quiet and mi soul
is trembling and sparking pieces
of voices and memories and times.
In this horizon of being a poet:
whom will I know with my solitude
monologue of verses and word games?
I know I will be seeking into days
the meaning of trashing images and songs,
but in this ton of attitude called poem,
must I show you a piece of my heart?
If I can’t name the sorrow when appears
the sun, I could remain into shadowy places
but my inner link with the full moon
gives me shyness and tenderness in this journey
discovering life and meanings. Into my strength
above the suffering and the tears
I whisper summers and falls, I recall
those times when I was not just a pure child
but a single adventurer, runner, seeker.
And in the middle of this mirror with acoustic
dreams I can’t find any way to tear apart
the stars of my sight, the wind of my nose,
the wood and Bambu of my hands,
the ideas of my mind, the water and coffee of my mouth.
Then I can’t be a poet nor a man, because
my ashes can’t reborn as the Phoenix,
but I can still try to build verses
with this mutilated speaking, with this
fragile amount of warm attempt.
Then I will follow to find the eternal home
of voices and meanings, the I will allowed
the sun and the sky to be my main inspiration
in this puzzle called infinite finite language.
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