POETRY

And it was at that time... Poetry came

to find me. Dont know, dont know from where,

it leapt, winter or the river.

Dont know how or when

no, not words, not

voices, not silence,

but I was called from the street,

from the branches of the night,

suddenly, from the others,

in violent flames,

or coming back alone,

I, without a face,

it touched me.



I did not know how to say, my mouth

no names,

my eyes

were blind,

and something began in my soul,

fever or lost wings,

and I made it alone,

deciphering,

that fire,

and I wrote the first, vague line,

vague, without a body, pure

nonsense,

pure knowledge,

of he who knows nothing,

and suddenly saw

the sky

unlock

and open,

planets,

pulsating spaces,

perforated shadows,



riddled

with fires, flowers, flights,

the revolving night, the universe.

And I the smallest thing,

made drunk by the great void,

starred,

in the image, likeness

of mystery,

felt myself pure part

of abyss,

turned with the starlight,

my heart broken loose in the wind.