we live in this same house it is big
and the living room is having three sofas
and the stairs are narrow
like a single bamboo
it is designed in such a way that departure is nil
that we must get inside and never bother thinking about getting out
we know leaving is extremely painful even if there is a promise that someday
wounds can heal and we take pride that we have forgotten
but leaving is a reality it is flood a deluge
and we are invaded with water and we drown
that is how we feel when we speak about stairs and roads
you know i write this because i remember
you see how smooth is my skin and there is no sign that there was once a wound here
it is only you who knows where it is but i will not ask you anymore for details
we speak about something else about the boat the wend sliding smoothly under the bridge and the man that sang you a song when you pass overhead like a bird flying away
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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