His waiting would go hand in hand with his writing
Letters enlightened by his dreams
Words filled with patience
Chapters heavy with metaphors
Books stressing his questions
All he could do was write
In his waiting, in his endless song
In his noteless life
Beachless shore, yes..
He would write
Write.
He would write that writing is like waiting..
That while we wait, we write
And he would write very cautiously that writing is like waiting
And all that while we wait…
We all write
In this circle, trapped in his words of routine....
He could not breathe
He wrote that while we write we wait for the words to become sentences..
He wrote that we can not write if we don t wait
Like a guardian, a captain
A soldier..
Those who write best,
Recruited his patience once more
With a pen half full..
No breeze, with the sun as his witness,
With the turtles as his allies in stand fastness
They would say he was older than the turtles,
confused like the waves,
a Spartan filled with desire
like a virgin mad with lust desperately looking for anything to write upon,
When there was no star left to write upon,
He would write in the sand..
He would cover the beaches, the desert..
The trees, flowers,
After that the animals..
He blessed his own body with his writing,
He was still waiting so he had to write…
He would find her..
Her body…
With permission to write..
All he could write was his name
Letters enlightened by his dreams
Words filled with patience
Chapters heavy with metaphors
Books stressing his questions
All he could do was write
In his waiting, in his endless song
In his noteless life
Beachless shore, yes..
He would write
Write.
He would write that writing is like waiting..
That while we wait, we write
And he would write very cautiously that writing is like waiting
And all that while we wait…
We all write
In this circle, trapped in his words of routine....
He could not breathe
He wrote that while we write we wait for the words to become sentences..
He wrote that we can not write if we don t wait
Like a guardian, a captain
A soldier..
Those who write best,
Recruited his patience once more
With a pen half full..
No breeze, with the sun as his witness,
With the turtles as his allies in stand fastness
They would say he was older than the turtles,
confused like the waves,
a Spartan filled with desire
like a virgin mad with lust desperately looking for anything to write upon,
When there was no star left to write upon,
He would write in the sand..
He would cover the beaches, the desert..
The trees, flowers,
After that the animals..
He blessed his own body with his writing,
He was still waiting so he had to write…
He would find her..
Her body…
With permission to write..
All he could write was his name
