We all have the same poet in us.
It struggles in our hair, entangled.
Adores uncovered lips.
Lashes and howls
in the silent conversation of our hearts.
It hears inaudibles,
hugs the invisible,
rattles chains and leaves marks.
It has the same cove
in every pair of eyes,
lunatics to saints.
It excuses reason with millennia.
It has Medusa’s face
covering the shy and beautiful.
It mocks fools who call it craft,
and wanders beaches frail and singing.
It is our universal soul, our child,
made lame by rough play,
sad from the wounds of rocks
brave by an indomitable mother
that watches over us.
And weeps, when we go away,
never hearing the wind again.
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