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Poetry

“And it was at that age…poetry arrived

in search of me.  I don’t know, I don’t know where

it came from, from winter or a river.

I don’t know how or when,

no, they were not voices, they were not

words, not silence,

but from a street it called me,

from the branches of night,

abruptly from the others,

among raging fires

or returning alone,

there it was, without a face,

and it touched me.

I didn’t know what to say, my mouth

had no way

with names,

my eyes were blind.

Something knocked in my soul,

fever or forgotten wings,

and I made my own way,

deciphering

that fire,

and I wrote the first, faint line,

faint, without substance, pure

nonsense,

pure wisdom

of someone who knows nothing;

and suddenly I saw

the heavens

unfastened

and open,

planets,

palpitating plantations,

the darkness perforated,

riddled

with arrows, fire, and flowers,

the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,

drunk with the great starry

void,

likeness, image of

mystery,

felt myself a pure part

of the abyss.

I wheeled with the stars.

My heart broke loose with the wind.”