WHAT WOULD LOVE BE WITHOUT YOU?
How could I have known lovehad you not come like rain upon my earth,had you not lit stars in the sky of my soul,had you not left longing to sleep in my chest?
I did not know that lovehad tears that burn like salt,wounds that blossom in silenceand sacrifices no one ever sees.
I did not know that a heartcould break without making a sound,that an embrace could become a shelter,and an absence… an endless winter.
You came and I learned everything:both the light and the dark,and how far the soul can goso as not to lose a heart.
And what would love be without you?Perhaps an unwritten word,a song without a melody,a rose that never knew the spring.
You taught me to love life,but also to tremble at loss…Because only one who has loved deeplyknows how much a heart hurtswhen it becomes a home for someone
THE OCTOBER THAT LOVED ME, THE OCTOBER THAT TOOK ME..
October knocked today with rain on the glass,the leaves grew wet, they trembled slowly,on the road a footprint dissolved like a wordthat time spoke… but did not take away.
Memories hang on silent branches,like yellowed letters the wind reads,and the rain, with its cold fingers,draws a drop on every memory.
October once came to me like a song,with a light that ignited a season for me,and since then, through the passing years,I hold a whole October inside my soul.
But October also knows how to be silent…to leave an empty seat at the table,a name to sleep among memories,like a missing light that still shines on you.
Therefore, October, I don’t know what to say:should I wait for you with longing or let you pass?You always come with leaves in your hands,but you leave, leaving me with a question:what must I forget,so that I can remember?
Today the rain keeps writing on the road,and my footprint slowly fades away…October repeats every year,but my heartis no longer the same.
THE POET AND POETRY
Poetry and the poet,two souls on a journey,sometimes they embrace the light,sometimes they crash into sorrow.
They fight, they argue, they drift apart,the silence between them becomes a wall,but like two old friends they return,for without each other they can never live.
The poet’s joy comes alive in verses,there the thought becomes a voice,it laughs and cries in every letter,and leaves a mark upon the soul.
The poet turns himself into letters,sometimes he is the sea, sometimes the sky,sometimes a wound that cannot close,sometimes a dream that becomes a sun.
When night descends upon his soul,sorrowful verses are born,but when joy turns on the light,the words become golden, blessed.
For the poet writes what the mouth does not say,what the heart keeps hidden away,every verse is a piece of the soul,a tear, a dream, a kindled fire.
