HERE.

I speak a lot to myself.

I sing aloud because the verses come to my tongue easily.

When my keyboard is far, I strike my fingers in delight. I hop a little.

I like my bread soft and brown; I write verses on any white paper.

While the Judge dictates and quotes.

I travel on a short sojourn riddled with
The paintings of artists, songs of bards.

I could be anywhere, Sweden, France

but I am here sticky streets and flaming paths.

I talk about the melancholia of life to anyone close to listen.

Of the indifference of cowards and the fear of the brave.

If I write to myself, I speak to an infinite audience.

But how can I write if I won’t weep?

When I walk, I listen to the tremble of the elements.

The stirrings of prophecies to come.

I have a soft tongue and fiery intentions.

To be the poet whose muse is not only pain.

So in the tunnel of silence, I break, create and create.

Today I paused to count the notebooks I have kept for years.

A proof that I live.

Fear is boring and other stories I whisper at night.

No one explains how great you are.
Selah.