Birth of a Poet
Small particle of fuzzy mind,
Floating in a cloud of frozen thought,
Struggling to find its own place,
Among these shiny drops of ice…
Once it was spat by a dying poet’s soul,
White-hot and aimless, born to silent world,
Like a seed of a tree long extinct,
It wishes to find an earth to grow.
Where the fate will wind him
Like a lost boat on a tumbling sea
He still does not fear nor know,
Since he lives in darkness sweet.
Sometimes he catches a glimpse of his own light,
Reflected by the ice from his surrounds,
Then he thinks for a while:
Who am i? Why am i?
Wonders why noone is like himself,
Why there is noone te talk to,
Only endless fields of frozen minds,
Memento of what they could become…
In this universe, there is only one,
Whe did awaken, opened eyes…
Alone in its universe, for a while,
That lasts forever.
Suddenly he comes to know, that he’s universe of his own,
All the stars and all the dusts,
All the worlds and all the rhymes,
Are within him, part of his own mind.
He is everything — he percieved now,
Now he will melt all the ice,
He can do, whatever he wants,
He’s a great poet — ruler of this world!
But when finally he tried, nothing could be done…
All the fields remain, ice shines like before.
And then — he observes for a while,
He percieves — he feels cold at heart,
Slowly wakes up from the dream,
Being an ice-drop in a cloud.