[Khamoshi]

The sudden light that sometimes dazzles us,
the troubled silences
and bright intuitions,
I am busy sowing my words to the wind…
Scattering them here too little,
and sometimes …. a little too much.

Poets die too young,
embalmed by their verses,
their modelled words flake to the light;
It’s up to you to read them with loud voice
with the inquiring eyes of the night,
a blind guides to light the audience.

I have no regrets, however,
At least, I have enjoyed my life
scattering seeds in every direction
and when the fruit will be eaten
the empty sack will stay,
there, in an angle,
as an elusive shadow of my future.

Poets die too young......

Anonymous