and there is a big black bird
actually the neighborhood calls it the crow
with red eyes
the children who ask
do not know where it really comes from
it is staying by the window and feeds on
the noise of a couple who discuss about divorce possibilities
it likes the way the children carry on the
confusion about where to go and whether they are loved
the housemaid is driving it away
but it doesn't have that capacity
there is a wound in its heart and its wings
are clipped off from the sickness of
indecision
it loves to watch the way how the housemaids
are stealing stories from their masters
it is quite a long time now and the wound is healed
and the wings have grown to their original sizes
it is ready to fly away but it cannot
it loves the show of other peoples miseries and concealed motives
the black bird's first name is everyday
and its surname is everyone.
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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