Poetry. Poetry is the blood That makes my veins spring It is the life that escapes In the big broth of my efforts It is my way of behaving To fight the hatred It is to refuse to undergo It is my human nature It is my way to quiver Words, like some tunes. It will break its chains These chains of incoherence These chains of ignorance These chains where from freedom Dance The emotional Trances. Out of our fearful wanderings The exceptional appears Fighting mirrors Flowers of unfaithful rows Making the immanence spring Smiling the reality Far from the artillery which think Of their subtleties Impose our pace Make roar out the rainbow Because the intolerance Who wants us so cruel Because of our unconsciousness We want to remain perpetual. Cannot die the sufferings But poetry makes it beautiful Such an evidence Such a watercolor And the brushes which dance On our lives sparks, Make the consciousness shine Of our individual Clamors and silences When nights hitch us In our dreams of childhood. When our days are the ones Of an intense future.
I like this very much. It is written in easy words, but beautiful vocabulary. I like the comparisons you have used - it sounds like life is beauty and colourful. Writing has the same effect as music - peace and finding yourself, healing souls of people. Very thought-inducing