I 've never believed a poet could be
compared to a mason,
unable to see words similar
I said to myself : how can a man see
a poem like a home?
Where are the walls to touch?
Where presences to smell?
And familiar noises to be heard?
Of course I know that anyone
Is able to see by his mind’s eyes;
but what if I were a King Midas
from ancient Greece
making verses of all my touching words?
Then I’d be able to construct
Golden, glittering poems?
As matter of fact a poet can build his poems
like a craftsman does his own handicrafts!
So many voices I can hearing around:
some, may be coming from Gehenna’s souls,
sound like star’s waves;
some others, come echoing,
from a confused dream of my past:
-" Watch out, boy! Lord Winningoes
will let the cat out of the bag, ‘you know?"
This reminds me
The misterious message of my remembrance!
But memories can be empty,
waterless fountains sometimes!
-"I’m going to resolve the enigma
of the secret message!"-
Albix thought, while still dreaming.
-"When you wake up
will be solving correctly
the whole matter!"-
seemed to reply a dead voice.
Now I feel like my dream
Will start being shown on the wall.
A dejà vu or may be a dejà entendu
Where a voice from the roof
Will show me building
A magic house made with all the letter
Of the latin alphabet
Enflourished on the top
With gothic and cirillic caracters!