As long as our hearts are paper,
and our hands are ink,
the poetry will exist.
For the Poetry,
A man is the Word.
A word that has escaped from the paper,
waiting to feel alive again,
to go back where it belongs- on the paper.
The moment we inhale Life,
we exhale Poetry,
along with all the thoughts and words
buried inside us for a long time.
For the Man,
Poetry exists under the skin,
in the arteries through which every word passes.
It belongs to everyone,
everyone feels it.
It rules over our emotions,
it transforms into endless lines of words.
Poetry is the inevitable shadow of every writer,
such as the shadow that follows poetry is a man.
For the Word,
A creation that consumes
a man is everything that the word
itself can’t stand to tell.
But it imprints its mark in thought
finding another, creating a feeling
experienced only when the heart
tastes poetry that has always possessed.