writing a poem
less the consciousness of
writing one
less the limelight
less the hope that
sooner you will be as
famous as a rock
star
that soon you will be
chased by a multitude of
fans asking for
your miraculous
fish and bread
and that jug of wine
on a wedding day,
(am i lost somewhere
in this chain of thoughts?
let me go back again)
writing a poem
with all spontaneity
without the expectation
that soon some publisher
would ask for
your poems for publication
upon a hefty
royalty,
is, and this is the final
clinch,
is very very easy.
well, i am not really
lost, i find my way back
again,
to a dream, to a cozy
surrender, for at most
it has nothing to do with
admiration,
listen, listen, it has
something to do with a healing,
with a cure.
a therapy, for an illness,
for another episode of your
loneliness
walking inside a tunnel
dark and cold
and going down and then up
wanting to find an exit
an outburst of light
blinding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem