To my poet friends
The word to me is both my bread and salt,I hold it dear even when I am mad.I know the word's weight, I know its shadows too,I know its whims, and I know its tastes too…
I know the word's value, I know its virtue too,I know to respect it when they try to stifle it.I love the word when others fail to weigh it,Even when they trample it, even when they kill it…
I love the word when we make it a bridge,For a friend, a brother, or for culture.All my life I have been in love with it,Be it a chirp or a written word…
For the written word for a comrade and friend,Can bring you shame and can make you noble.It makes you proud too when you place it right,On the street, at the table, or in the assembly…
When you leave its dough unbaked,And when it is kneaded by a sleeping mind,When you turn it to poison and gift it to a friend,It ruins the blooming of the whole estate...
For the word is a stone laid in the foundation,Whenever it flies and slips from the mouth.But it is also a mine that blows you apart,If you don't weigh it well when you bring it to the door…
All my life I have treated the word gently,With great care to plant it in the mind.Often I caress it, but I also bridle it,I don't let it run wild, I don't leave it without a halter.
For it enters the fields of friends and neighbors,Doing the work of the mole and the mice.It eats the papers where they are signed and written,The contracts, the thoughts approved between us…
When the word disobeys me, and slips out unthought,I quickly grab the scissors in my hands.I cut off its vices, its wind, and the hair on its head,So it stays beautiful among friends and comrades…
I let it loose playfully to mingle with friends,But I don't let it boast, to speak just for show.For we all know, it is a light thing,Behind it hides the mind of the one who speaks it…
Whenever I carve the word and make it a work,In fable, poetry, and story on paper,I toil to give it values with weight and thought,Because all this work will bear my name…
It is known, the creator will die one day,But the written words are like candles,They cast light for life over his grave,They bring him shame, or make him a god…
Therefore whenever I speak, I have scales on my tongue,When I take the childlike word by the hand,I don't let it walk down a hopeless road,I lay down the thought for it, then let it wander…
I make it sweet, I dress it with light too,Then I open the gates and give it its freedoms,To enter the soul of the other lightly,To gift them joy, or to give them life…
The word is a spring for the glass of the soul,Justice, peace, or the blood of Christ,So it shouldn't be spilled on the roads we walk,For it isn't gathered easily, and then we are scolded…
So be careful brothers, citizens, poets,Doctors, philosophers, when you throw it on the page,Think the word deeply in the “fold” of the head,And only then open the wings of the door…
For the word truly has no name and no weight,But it wears your suit when you dress it,And a bad suit, they used to say in the old days,Is the loss of values that comes from its master…
