Who can express, impotent and enslaved soul, what the mouth does not say, what the hand does not write? - You burn, you bleed, nailed to your cross, and soon you're looking at what dazzled you, crumbled into mud...
Thought boils over and is a vortex of lava:
Form, cold and thick, is a sepulcher of snow... And the heavy Word stifles the light Idea,
Which, perfume and flash, refulfied and flew.
Who will find the mold for the expression of everything? Oh, who will say the infinite yearnings of the dream? and the sky that flees from the hand that rises?
And mute anger? and mute disgust? and mute despair?
And the words of faith that were never spoken?
And the confessions of love that die in the throat?!
YOU ARE READING
A RESTLESS LIFE
PoésieAmong many words taken from the depths of the chest, guided by the heart and passing directly into my hands.
