Why do scribblers write poetry
and poets write nothing?
Because there’s death in confronting
beauty.
Wounds no one can bear.
A search confronting inevitable loss.
Poets hide lest they be eaten,
thrown in the sea,
consumed by the flames
of the faithful,
ridiculed by fools and realists.
They are fragile beings
who whisper, I am fog
looking for shape.
Laughter looking for joy.
I have as many gods as stars.
Words fly from my heart
like birds looking for a country
where they are not hunted.
I write poems of air,
and die without remains.
Words drowning in silence.