You read and write them, the words,
but I say they are more capable than that.
I hear them talk to me while my eyes touch them, their voices clear and loud.
Some are only whispers and some others are yelling, crying and shouting in joy.
They not only tell me the stories of the world,
but show me too its beauty.
Yesterday I saw how vibrant were the Daffodils Wordsworth has written about.
The same words carried the fresh smell of the rain until my doorstep on a hot summer day.
I shuddered when the thunder rumbled and smiled when someone joked.
A tear or two must have rolled out when a character had fought valiantly but died.
These words for me have created a new place,
and I desire to go to places to find new words.
I came to think it should have been a difficult time when the words were not yet born.
How else could one speak of the sea without comparing it to that of the depth of our hearts.
For these words are my sole weapon to not escape reality but to build a space for the feelings to breath and the dreams to thrive.