Pablo speaks to me at night
ever at my window
whispering in the dark,
stories,
tales that cross seas and
skies
Oh the religion of the
words!
He calls.
I echo.
Poetry, poetry.
Like moonlight
his words seep in,
touching me here
and there
fuelling the dying flames
of inspiration
clearing the clouds that settled
in my eyes
oh the religion of words!
He calls.
I echo.
He loves to tell me secrets
of pasts regretted
and lives wasted
of art that floats
like air
unseen necessities.
“Poeta! Poeta!
Don't be afraid of sweetness”
he murmurs
then goes,
back to the pages
where his spirit
is written
back to
his religion of words,
the scriptures of a
poet.
I return to my pillow
of painted dreams
and another day is born.
