I am the poet without readers,
my eyes catch snowflakes in the clouds,
my fingers ramble through the cinders
of a late season closing doors.
Staying awake, gazing at stars
my rebel dreams vanish away
old songs are smothered in my years
where rhymes can’t find their proper pairs.
Now my embroidered lace is yellow
like pages that were never turned
the print that shaped the verse is old,
in a blind desert a blind train.
Coming out from the wall’s core,
where there is no window,
you can hear knotted strings
playing a soft cantilena,
lulling to sleep all past phantoms
coming alive in the shade.
The poet’s eyes are freezing them,
carving everything in stone.
My heart has found a revolving door
towards the old attic
where the moon keeps turning around
like an old gramophone.
Always the same tune.
From corner to corner
a light trembles in the heart’s chambers.
Do I really know if the world
is on the back or in front of the mirror?
The truth is burning in moonlight
lighting a deserted hearth.
It snows with white pages and white cinders,
The poet covered his dream in thousands of eyelids.
Me… I’m just looking through the eyes
of a torn wings bird.