Poetry is still
written between the lines,
like a language without a map.
We are the only ones
who have not read it.

That poem is that smile
that flows through the
eastern mountains hidden
in the snow with the pouring rain,
without touching the rocks.

That smile is
never indecipherable,
but it carries the
rhythm of time,
the music of society,
the scent of forgotten paths
and the sweet language
of women.

The riots are still not less
Even though the
old letters
have faded
Only some songs
we don't know