When Poetry Becomes the Last Witness
I write,
because if I do not write,
I fear I have never been.
I write,
because my body no longer fits
except on the page.
my poetry is not recited.
it is washed in a basin,
hung to dry in the cold,
and smells of unsaid life.
whoever reads and does not weep,
has not understood.
who closes the book and falls silent,
is my brother.
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