Poetry

Who Are You, Poetry

Tell me, who are you, dear Poetry,
that I must sing these fragile lines,
stare deep into the endless darkness,
and bear the moods of fleeting minds?

You are manna sent from heaven,
a tear that trembles in the eye,
a Marzanna lost in river waters,
the ash of daylight passing by.

Tell me, who are you, dear Poetry,
why do you touch my restless soul?
No, don’t answer — silence tells me:
you are the feeling that makes me whole.

You weave the words in tender bouquets,
you make me gaze at distant stars,
and through the sleepless quiet midnight
you leave your silver, secret scars.

You are the smile of a young girl,
the shining in an old one’s eyes,
the resurrection of winter wheat,
a voice from worlds beyond the skies.

Tell me, who are you, dear Poetry,
why do you touch my restless soul?
No, don’t answer — silence tells me:
you are the feeling that makes me whole.

You are the sunlight of spring mornings,
a little flame inside the night,
the lifted hearts of silent lovers,
the tunnel’s end, the distant light.

You are the colors of the rainbow,
a signpost where the pathways part,
the woven art of fragile spiderwebs,
the scent of bread, the fields, the heart.

Tell me, who are you, dear Poetry?
No — do not speak, I understand.
It is enough that you keep giving
these tender tremblings to my hand.