Poetry is a state which catches me off guard,
in some corner of time,
between the shadows of a slow Sunday
and the nameless light of an empty street.

It doesn't come from a book or from a dream;
it rather comes with the subtle echo of days
and the quiet touch of hours—
a way the universe might reveal somehow
in its nakedness, within its fissures.

a whisper of itself: of the invisible.

I don't know how I can express what I feel,
or how to name it.

It is light's touch upon the soul,
an ancient lullaby in the chest,
a revealing that seeks no explanations
but only unconditional surrender.

And in that revelation, faceless,
poetry becomes flesh,
body of words that spills out,
and I feel the entire universe
in the fragrance of the eternal—
a moment in which all is one,
and my heart expands
till it gets lost
in the vastness of silence.