And it was at
that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires,
or returning alone,
there it was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings
and I made my own way,
deciphering that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsence,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated, riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mistery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.