by DAHLIA TERA
Like a high wire walker,
He loves his aerial solitude,
In the fragile balance
Between heaven and earth.
In his oversized and worn jacket,
Out fashion pants,
Messy long hair, acrobat’s hat….
His gait is sluggish, nonchalant, a bit lazy,
No immediate destination…no rush..
He sees away
Where others usually don’t see.
His feet touch the ground and don’t touch it.
HE IS LIKE A TIGHTROPE WALKER.
His body and his heart feel the breeze
That could make him fall;
He is careful, he knows.
He is too sensitive:
he cries more than he laughs.
The others laugh at this crazy man.
But he is not crazy, he is inspired,
Looking for magical words which are never right,
To free his bubbling inside.
he hears a sweet melodious music in the airs,
he sees the garish colors on the canvas,
And he also loves listening the silence,
Enjoying his solitude.
His grass is blue, his sky turns red,
His sun may be black….
The notes dance on the wire,
HE IS LIKE A TIGHTROPE WALKER..
He walks on tiptoe,
He does not want to scare anyone,
He just yearn for writing his visions
Without explanation …
Poetry cannot be explained, it is pure freedom:
He climbs the ocean,
He swims in the mountains,
He detaches the stars in broad daylight.
Suggesting, moving, disturbing, announcing
In a sublime language
That combines the here and the elsewhere.
Then the poet offers us
His spiritual caress,
His song towards Infinity,
From his tightrope up there …
THE POET …