for
Nat Lipstadt
In the tangle of sounds
and twisted letters,
I search for breath,
to slow the pulse of meaning.
The broken chain of notes is like a core,
passing through an acoustic cone.
Culture, history, and language
are not obstacles,
but a shell of clay
through which the wind flows.
I stand quietly behind a cracked window,
they ask us: create a language.
Unique in its expression,
man is guided too long by syllables
that cut and close within the borders.
On that day, I saw a garden,
and in it, words
blooming like exotic colorful flowers,
carrying within them the sweet nectar of meanings,
restoring dignity to every being.
We are like working bees,
chewing the cosmic dust.
In the desert of artificial conventions,
it is not proper to write from the heart,
to not offend the form,
to not lose the rhythm.
So, we come here,
searching for words driven deep
We lift them, each in our own way,
each in our own idiom.
To be an impulse and a memory
It is a reward, not an exile.
Here we have our own room to write
giving weight while seeking lightness,
in rhyme,
in the sea of creative doubts,
we travel
saving ourselves on the little
boat in an immense, timeless ocean.
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 9:31 PM UTC
for
Nat Lipstadt
In the tangle of sounds
and twisted letters,
I search for breath,
to slow the pulse of meaning.
The broken chain of notes is like a core,
passing through an acoustic cone.
Culture, history, and language
are not obstacles,
but a shell of clay
through which the wind flows.
I stand quietly behind a cracked window,
they ask us: create a language.
Unique in its expression,
man is guided too long by syllables
that cut and close within the borders.
On that day, I saw a garden,
and in it, words
blooming like exotic colorful flowers,
carrying within them the sweet nectar of meanings,
restoring dignity to every being.
We are like working bees,
chewing the cosmic dust.
In the desert of artificial conventions,
it is not proper to write from the heart,
to not offend the form,
to not lose the rhythm.
So, we come here,
searching for words driven deep
We lift them, each in our own way,
each in our own idiom.
To be an impulse and a memory
It is a reward, not an exile.
Here we have our own room to write
giving weight while seeking lightness,
in rhyme,
in the sea of creative doubts,
we travel
saving ourselves on the little
boat in an immense, timeless ocean.
Request permission to use this poem