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In the fabric of night, poets craft their dreams,
With the thin thread of the moon and fingers intertwined with falling stars.
They seek perfection in the world's crevices, in the uncertainty of the unspoken,
The splendor of hidden valleys tempts them, to soar higher, to write deeper.
Ah, the mind that flies, an albatross in dreams, bewildered among men,
Dresses in phantom garments to embrace the secrets of the soul.
Life steps heavily upon him, but in freefall, he discovers himself greater,
The poverty of the body enriches his song, and his tears become beads on harp strings.
Suffering is his straitjacket, and in this sublime madness,
He drinks the elixir of inspiration, his eyes sparkling with unexpected vigor.
He wishes to be more broken, more lost in the storm of life, to bring forth from the abyss,
Verses unbounded, pearls born from the depths of a tumultuous sea.
Poetry is the ark where he takes refuge, writing with the feathers of sorrowful birds,
And with each triumph that slips through his fingers, he ascends higher.
He longs to be misunderstood, the shadow of an echo, a river without a source,
Only this way, on the map of eternity, will his wanderings remain etched.
Living on the edge of the world he slides, there his tale grows like ivy,
Gathering in the cup of his hand the gifts of endless failures.
The most beautiful verses are born from a crushed heart,
He is the sap dripper in the bark of time, the poet among the ruins confesses.

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