The Machine
Wandering, looking for wonder,
clueless and shoeless machine,
travelling over and under,
here and there. My skin
made of amalgam is shining,
catches the sun and reflects
errors, misprints, underlining,
cases and spaces in texts;
characters, symbols and letters,
mountains, rivers and trees,
big and essential matters
that people face and my keys
lost out there somewhere
by an anonymous lake...
God, I will call you unfair
wonderful brilliant fake,
if omnimeaningful Logos
doesn't exist, doesn't mean.
Even if wonder is bogus,
wander, my writing machine.
One of the first English poems, if not the first one, I wrote 2-3 years ago. Still doubt if it's worth posting. Ok, let it live)
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