INFINITE
Sidney Leal
Transpires
in my beard white wires of an age that still have no marks of the experiences I
had, but did not reveal that I have yet; Shines
in my eyes a sadness I can not live, but share and describe in my writing and
poetry;
Transpires
in a poetry that my words do not dominate, but that is present in everything I
write and feel; Believe yes I write my stories! Are mine! They come in a gray
area where sounds and images represented by translucent colors dancing in my
mind, where the thin fragile lines of reality and dreams, are mixed with the
madness of living;
Transpires weakness in my body weak, punish the years the mortality of my days, the
finitude of my life, our lives, that a flash of years elapsed, or paths chosen
or not, can simply end;
Transpires?
No! Just seems, because as every artist discovers, discovered the fountain of
eternal life, not eternal youth. Passionate yes, crazy perhaps, but I can say
that if there is a formula for immortality, say with certainty is the gift of
writing.
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