This riverbank of doubt has
—warm breezes from the south as witness—
a wave which, rogue and permanent,
stirs up a tingling sensation below the navel.
Two thousand sparks of argent in Selene
watch over for a wish I achieve
which tears my apart of absence. I'd rather
not flatter this love I curse.
Yet it is dreaming when I consent
my poetry to live in her eyes
and the lonelinesses in the torment.
And everything is art if in the distance,
when whispering my verses to the wind,
the star of my soul beats.
© Xavier Sánchez García writes from Spain, and took part with this poem of the first Heptagrama poetry contest.
Art and expression + Poetry