Travels

O traveler poet Read your poem with the last autumn thunderstorm to the sleepless long night For no one will listen to the wound of poetry any more With the arrival of the last snowflake of winter Make a snowman for the time And with its melting say Goodbye, cruel era * When you left home, you closed the doors quietly So that the canaries would not wake You did not know they woke up before you In a delicate twilight, heard in your slightest step the rhythm of a sudden journey of far paths and remote slopes * you pass by the Well before it dries up, without waving goodbye while it washes the face of the dawn And without knowing how long the journey will last you left behind the unhealed wounds You cannot know that the time will not wait for your return they looked away then knelt down, without saying goodbye * Here is a butterfly for a shaky soul that alights on your lip and will not fly How could you have known, when the hot tears of separation were shed on the cold, silent waves? The light dips into the agitated sea and you will never see it again this is the howling of the soul * O traveler poet for which continent will you leave? all lands stand on hard rocks Everywhere time stops at the same hour The butterfly smiles no more The dove is not considered a messenger of peace Neither is the rose a symbol for lovers But life is filled with the sewing of spider webs and the caws of crows from the sky And the artificial sheen of plastic flowers, Travel back inside yourself This is the best spot To explore tranquility quietly