The poet looks for brave men,so he can find his rhymes,he looks for new pathways,so he can find the shores.
The poet finds figures,for all of those bridges,that cross over the river,with three arches or more.
With poetry he burns the sun,with verses he colors the sky,he gives light to the moon,thousands of kisses to his mother.
He cannot do without children,for the whole world is his,the chirping of birds is his song,just like his joy and his sorrow.
The poet once made a vow,with uproar and with clamor,that he would write no more in rhymes,nor would he seek out brave men.
But how could he part from his rhymes,where would he go without brave men,without bridges he cannot cross the river,nor does the dream come without sleep.
“I know how to write,” he said,and how to bake bread,with verses that are free,but they are not any better.
