not all poems are words.
my poems should also please not be called art.
the poems which i still find present in me
the day after writing are not words.
some end with words or begin with words
and may only uncover dirt, aggression, tristesse
or a certain clumsiness of mine in being alive.
the others are parts of me given from me in my transience,
poems frail like autumn leaves through which the sun shines,
with holes and spaces,
true parts of me as a real being, human and man,
soul and skin and blood and spirit,
coming out in flow with an effort to capture the essence
i experience in my very own life, as it can be present
and expressed parts of my consciousness.
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