Резултати претраге страна 2

Poetry

And it was at that time...Poetry came
to find 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 weren't voices, they weren't
words, or silence,
but from a street, it called me,
from the boughs of the night,
suddenly amongst the others,
between violent fires
or returning alone,
it was there faceless
and it touched me.
 
I didn't know what to say, my mouth
didn't know what
to call it,
my eyes were blind,
and something was beating in my soul,
a fever or lost wings,
I just kept going,
analyzing
that burning,
and I wrote my first vague line,
vague, no substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
from which one knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the sky
uncovered
and open,
planets,
throbbing plantations,
the pierced darkness,
riddled by arrows, fire and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.
 
And me, a tiny being,
inebriated by the great void
filled with stars,
in the image and likeness
of the mystery,
I felt I was a part of the pure
abyss,
I wandered with the stars,
my heart was unleashed in the wind.
 

Perhaps not being is being without you knowing

Perhaps not being is being without you knowing,
without you going cutting the midday
like a blue flower, without you walking
later through the fog and the bricks,
 
without this light that you carry in your hand
which perhaps others may not see as golden,
which perhaps grew without anyone knowing
like the red origin of the rose,
 
without you knowing, in the end, without you coming
abrupt, inviting, to come to know my life,
burst of rosebush, wheat of wind,
 
and from then I am because you are,
and from then you are, I am and we are,
and for love I shall be, you shall be, we shall be.