The Darkness
The darkest word in English is the darkness.
The real darkness differs from a starkness,
a rut of death with pennies on her lids.
The darkness, I repeat, has no bearing
on covered mirrors, farewells, despairing
and mourning lilies in the widow's weeds.
Oh, how I love the darkness of a starless
and empty space a plot is coming from,
a flash of inspiration and a parlous
script twist, a weird content, a new form.
The form, the content and the emptiness
which is composed of everything... I guess,
this sort of darkness fills a poet's pen.
Not pen but veins! One day, I know, my blood,
my sleeplessness, my poetry, my art
will turn into the darkness once again.
A winged, a dragonfly sonnet? I have no idea)
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