The mad sighs and dies in the fever of knowledge, and the wise, masking madness on his face, flees from people.
The mad puts her lips on wounds and composes poetry inspired by pain, the wise, silent and wide awake, sings the song of silence in the crowd.
One sees the sky in ruins, and the other watches the ceiling on the roof of his palace.
And again a question swirls in the heart of the storm.
Which of them is more awake? Which of them is more alive?
But we, in the middle of these two,
We are neither lunatic enough to free our hearts,
Nor wise enough to escape from our hearts
We only maintain our roles,
In a play that has no stage, no audience, in an ending that has never been written.
YOU ARE READING
The Fig Tree
PoetryA series of a teenager's mental secretions, living through the distorting lenses of a bell jar. Inspired by Sylvia Plath.
