I write.
That's it.
I can wait a whole morning
or afternoon
for time passing by without a hint
of remorse.
Discerning the slow beat
of my soul
as an incubus
inside the cavity of a barren
and alien land.
I do not come here to say something
or be silent.
Neither to wait nor be waited.
I write.
That's it.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I do something else.
Something of what I have not news
or the slightest clue
nor interest to solve.
Explain myself?
What for?
I would have to explain
the night,
this furious moon
upon an ancient desert,
these hands,
and the unutterable word
from so many
poetry made
and unmade because
and because not.
I would have to make way to myself
through oceans of time
and lyricism hackneyed
by lack of originality.
Here I am.
Or not.
I write.
That's it.
The rest is just you
wanting to find
something to figure out
your own unsolvable enigma.
