POETRY

You, poetry,
shadow more mystery
than the dark roots of the old trees,
more than the hidden air
that the secret veins of the profound minerals,
the farthest brightest star
the hidden burning in the center of the soil.
You, mixed music
the soft sounding harp of the constellations,
You, ascending music
the edge of the ultimate blue cliff,
You, music of yours
the tam-tam of pulses and the song of the blood.
You, poetry
born for the man and his language,
no white seagulls are over a shipless sea
no pretty flowers standing tall over a scar of the desert.