Like a dried-up fountain, I sip from my shadows

Like a dried-up fountain, I sip from my shadows, Dusty memories, like forgotten books on shelves of dreams, I swallow my existence, like a sea of silence, And let it flow, spread, dissolve into verses. I would like to open my heart, to sprinkle my blood On the white paper, to write with the venom of melancholy And to see how each word becomes a stiletto for me, Deeply embedded in the flesh of readers, in the flesh of the world. I need life to feed my death, To feel how each breath becomes a verse, How each heartbeat becomes a rhythm, An echo of ancestral sadness, And how my soul transforms Into a river of murky light, Flowing between rocks of pain, through valleys of longing. Even if it kills me, I will scatter into words, Like a rain of shooting stars, Like a wind that whispers the forgotten names of ancient gods. I need it! Even if it kills me, To feel how each letter absorbs my life, How each sentence feeds my death, And to know that I have lived, that I have existed, In an ocean of words, in a universe of sadness. I need it! Even if it kills me. Even if it kills me!