In seclusion and focus
long enough to settle in,
every word or phrase
becomes an understatement
with a greater pause
and reflection to it,
whether we sense it
or not

En trouvant plus ou moins
l’art de quelqu’un
il se demande
“Qui l’a écrit ?”.
Non, non, non !
Il devrait se demander et se préciser
„Qui l’a créé ?”
car quiconque a pu le transférer
seulement en lettres
et l’y mettre,
mais seulement le créateur,
la mère,
a pu lui baiser
avec son âme et esprit
en lui donnant ainsi la Vie

You shall know thereby
a word or message’s
been right
if your Bowel Heart
trembles at it
whilst Mind can’t wrap its head
around it
(pun intended,
as they say)

Artistic existing and being,
however it is,
comes from the verge
of the land of sense,
somehow non-consciously
and dazing,
like the prophesying Pythia,
yet not that supernaturally

One of the signs
of someone’s Poetry
in their veins
is seeing more light
in the night than day.
Dormant kitchen’s & boiling room’s
machines
emitting sounds
of twinkling stars
and water

We
Philosophers
exist with Phronemophilia
flowing through all of us
and we live off thinking
as breathing
and bearing jewels like that
to truly be

Nella faccia del Senso e di Tutte Le Cose, come davanti al Nascimiento o alla Morte, si risolvono le domande
ed anche noi con tutti i nuostri miraggi: siamo prima di tutto gli stessi bebé, impotenti,
incapabili di vincere tutto
solamente con la raggione,
deboli come porcellana che neghiamo.
I bebé che fanno lo stesso:
sognano,
piangiano,
provano di capire,
suffrono,
osano,
amano
e passano così veloce
ed invisibilemente
come cenere.
Saremo tutti giudicati
e valorati
nello stesso modo
nell’equilibrio

Dirigirse hacia alguien
con su propio nombre
es la prueba del respecto más grande
que lo de usar todos esos títulos
formales e innecesarios,
como que enfocamos el otro ser
como una persona de verdad
y de carne, hueso y alma.
Aclamamos su identidad, intimidad,
que existe tan dolorosamente en realidad con todas las sensaciones
como cualquier otra persona.
A la vez la desnudamos y saludamos,
con un coraje calmo

Words like
“Syria”,
“Arabia”
or
“Aleppo”
somehow as beautiful sound
like oil pastels
on beige
found

Because the light and shade
of fedora’s peepholes
shines hot
like a golden mosque;
How being caught up by something
so up close
stirs fullness
and feels of attention

Poems themselves are not directly Poetry yet a written, cognitive transcription of It. A beauteous Poet doesn’t need to speak or write
to be one;
It resonates through their either tender or pondering glances,
acts,
demeanour
and kisses peppered on the universe’s matters
with eyes,
finger tips,
soles,
breath
and thoughts of Heart too complex for the Mind.
If Heart Thoughts are even greater, they turn gibberish
and may seem silent or even non-existent to seekers of the verbal.
Poetry can be every thing,
a newspaper,
understatement,
laboured breathing,
reflective walk among the trash bins, apprehension hidden behind a lonely phrase
or honourable existing
as a sole, proud activity.