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,
and kisses peppered on the universe’s matters
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,
reflective walk among the trash bins, apprehension hidden behind a lonely phrase
or honourable existing
as a sole, proud activity.
uma metade da verdadeira língua materna,
a liberdade da Filosofia.
Inaceitável de separar-os,