The sun begins to hide in a faint dark orange glow,
as I lay here.
Thinking about poets and what it takes
To take words,
to caress them in your mind,
to hold them, trembling,
in your hands, and lay them down,
as I lay here,
on the paper.
The whole task seems too distant,
to exist only in those who are not me,
Poets who spontaneously tame words,
and hold keys to the fields,
where they dance freely,
Towards their paper.
As I lay here,
The sky darkens,
The birds tweet songs
And I,
I redeem myself
To the inexistent skill
Of a poetic soul.
Rute Costa
12/3/2014
