Perhaps you find your outlet at night, but what prize can be given to an eternal winner? Is it not like that lemon tree still hanging on the old branch? Isn’t that your voice? Thunderous as the roar of the void, insistent as the had that never stops telling lives?
And what words can reach the poet’s pen to draw a picture of your eloquence? Perhaps one should follow the pirouettes of smoke rising from the coffee cup. Perhaps one should bathe in the glare of an undecided tear. Was the man crying? Or was it the harassing pollen masquerading as an indistinguishable Pierrot?
Speak. Despite everything, you speak. Even when no one wants to listen to you, the illusion you give is lovely. Like May air, you make love to every creature, but the limelight is never yours. Speak. And, in your speaking, you give life silence.
