(Inspired by an unknown poet)
Let me keep on describing things
to be sure they once happened
for it would be silenced soon
surrendered by memory, failing in History.
The way it all went is the only way
to tell it with every detail
without the slightest fingerprint of fiction
about the beautiful
traces still in my poetic memory,
in my poetic existence.
There are silent stories behind every window
but the window of the soul sees
My own windows are wide
opened when I been there. Only I have in mine
closet closed it.
It is it I hide in my closet long time ago
hardly I forget to remember.
Still pinching my glowing cheeks to be
certain I am fully awake,
marking out the traces with delight
when it all happened
where it all happened
why it all happened
how it all happened.
I am the only who
who happened at all.
Other eyes might tell it
different but it is my eyes.
It is my eyes.
It is more of a fish,
a fish swimming in the pond
near your fishing rod, near your bait.
Whistling a happy song, you bow
down to look if there is something,
something tugging you, tugging your bait.
Alarmed, you tried to get in control of it,
to hold it on, tightly
gripping on the handle of the fishing rod.
The next minute, it is all gone
into the silent pond, without a trace
and you try and you fail
to catch the moment gone,
the adventure it unfolds before your eyes,
the thrill to catch something,
the fish fighting for its life
gone with the wind, even before you remember
you are a hermit, once more.
It is in front of you but you are not in front of it.
Just like that.
First published in Red Ochre Literature