I’ve heard that poetry is God’s native tongue.


The world’s night
approaches midnight,
the abyss that is all deceiving,

Denied the truth
of fruit or vine, embraced
only by traces of fugitive gods
who first must have their sacrifice,

the poets do attend
their singing, a gift from them
to godless men. In the dark,
their song the sole spark,
a full moon on the deepest night.

Those who lack the tune
must learn to listen, The poet exists
not as a myth but as necessity,
His voice lifts that the mute might speak,
His eyes open
that the world might see.