A poet produces when it is autumn and it drizzles
and houses elevate by the grace of fog,
the poet then returns to the land of childhood
populated by anguishes, sounds and grandmothers.
Time silences for an instant, sprinkles the look,
the cloud is universe which involves all the sky
nearby, in the afternoon, by the sunset or that way
at least the awaiting poet imagines it.
Nothing in this fever the well-known silence
which serves as fertilizer of beautiful metaphors;
that hidden thing sounds, it pleases for man
the indescribable magic of this brief instance.
A poet generates the fruits of the soul
feeds life with subtle scents: the blue
of days, the beloved and his love, the wine and the light
which in every good path like a goal settles.
Unhappy the distance between the bird and the smile!
Accursed the lineage of hate and lie!
Calm rain tells us haste is useless
if at every hour sixty lives sing.
A poet writes and the hand is strange to him:
five fingers impersonate the pain of times
add a tone of pain to that note;
with autumn, leaves give the shape of the wind.
© Alejandro Mauriño
Alejandro Mauriño writes from Argentina, and took part with this poem of the first Heptagrama poetry contest.
Arts and expression + poetry