The night asked me,
“Is the poet faithful?”
Perhaps he is both:
faithful in hunger,
unfaithful in destination.
He does not always love women
as other men do.
Sometimes he loves only the mirrors of himself
hidden inside them.
A smile becomes a religion.
A waist becomes a road.
A pair of eyes becomes a war
he willingly loses.
He kisses beauty wherever it appears,
because poetry itself is betrayal:
it steals the living moment from life
and sentences it to immortality.
Yet there is another truth:
A poet may write of a thousand women
and still belong to one,
the way the sea touches every shore
yet remains married to the moon.
Some poets are merely thieves of beauty.
They pluck roses not to possess them,
but because their hands
cannot refuse the fragrance.
So, is the poet faithful
or a cheater?
Ask the woman who loved him.
Her answer
will be the only honest poem.
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 12:11 AM UTC
The night asked me,
“Is the poet faithful?”
Perhaps he is both:
faithful in hunger,
unfaithful in destination.
He does not always love women
as other men do.
Sometimes he loves only the mirrors of himself
hidden inside them.
A smile becomes a religion.
A waist becomes a road.
A pair of eyes becomes a war
he willingly loses.
He kisses beauty wherever it appears,
because poetry itself is betrayal:
it steals the living moment from life
and sentences it to immortality.
Yet there is another truth:
A poet may write of a thousand women
and still belong to one,
the way the sea touches every shore
yet remains married to the moon.
Some poets are merely thieves of beauty.
They pluck roses not to possess them,
but because their hands
cannot refuse the fragrance.
So, is the poet faithful
or a cheater?
Ask the woman who loved him.
Her answer
will be the only honest poem.
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