It is ironic that those who guard the gates of poetry rarely
It is ironic that those who guard the gates of poetry rarely,
if ever,
manage to enter into it themselves.
I came in through a secret back door,
a door hidden from the eyes of the world,
where the waves of the sea whisper the secrets of time,
and each ripple of the water tells me about lives lived and forgotten,
about dreams lost in unknown depths,
and stars that fall into the ocean like silver tears,
reminding me of the burning desires that were never fulfilled.
I feel myself getting lost in this flow of thoughts,
a river of memories and dreams intertwining in an eternal dance,
and each wave that crashes on the shore reminds me of the inexorable passage of time,
of the moment when the sun sets and the shadows lengthen,
and I wonder if I will ever find that old ship,
with its salt-crusted sails,
and if I will sail towards horizons where the sea promises me immortality.
And in this quest,
I wonder if I will ever forget the love of a woman,
the music that fills my soul,
or the taste of food that brings back childhood memories,
or the wild play of the horse running free on the field,
throwing clods of earth and destinies into the air,
in just the moment when the sun sets and the world sinks into darkness.
It is ironic that in our quest to guard the gates of poetry,
we forget to live within ourselves,
to open our souls to the magic and melancholy of life,
to lose ourselves in the flow of thoughts and dreams
and find the secret door that leads us to the heart of the sea,
where the waves whisper to us about immortality and eternity.
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