Hello, poetry-loving friends, verse-makers, dreamers of metaphors.
This is my first post in this community, and I hope it won't be the last. I'd love to publish every week.
I'm here to bring you one of the last poems I wrote one of those mornings when the soul needs to tell stories.
Since poetry can't be explained, I'll leave my verses here. Thank you for existing.
HUNTER OF THE EVERYDAY
I went out to hunt sunrises,
to walk along the edges,
to whisper cries to this city.
I went out to burn the water
and empty an uninhabited house.
I understood that all silhouettes
are ghosts,
the spirit didn't exist in every rumor,
and I understood that a verse
is never born,
the verse has always been there
and the womb will always be occupied.
Today I went out to hunt sunrises
and I also captured silences.
The published text is original and the images are my property and cut out for this post .
