Poets bloom in the dark
The doors closed to others' curiosity
The windows obscured by a soul
humble but oxidized and tormented
Like some flowers that do not water
they almost never eat
Uncertain and senseless
Blinds do not grope
In the hypothetical unreal world
Which hides in surprise
of the night ?
It is not them the night of all
At the banishment the enticing, loving encounters!
Or the drunkenness of ordinary people
They are heartbreaking nights of memory blood
Nights without meaning
for this semblance of life
Poets sometimes hide
in the flower of solitude
No flower would be worth it
And yet it is so
And they have blind eyes
For thousands of suns
The many petals are lost
On their long way
Perennial flowers, some
Flowers for one day,
others
And it is not easy to smell it
Thousands of kilometers are kept away
For each verse, unwary
They bring others to the world
Weight affects and makes the difference
The dew does not touch them at all
But the Universe can not be without it.