The leaned say that your lights will one day be no more, said the
firefly to the stars.
The stars made no answer.
In the dusk of the evening the bird of some early dawn comes to
the nest of my silence.
Thoughts pass in my mind like flocks of lucks in the sky.
I hear the voice of their wings.
The canal loves to think that rivers exist solely to supply it with water.
The world has kissed my soul with its pain, asking for its return
in songs.
That which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open,
or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for its entrance?
Thought feeds itself with its own words and grows.
I have dipped the vessel of my heart into this silent hour; it has
filled with love.