What can speak the words of the

spirit, in a time without none?

When the only listening proceeds

from the dear and fragile –

The presence of others, which only

lives for a small moment,

For its being is finite. 


Poetry is not language but it is life

In it, I know that the manifest and

variegated appearance of things

Is a gift, and only that.

No one can speak the language

of the spirit without knowing this:

That it is not words but music,

That signals, cries, and loves

What is in truth nothing.