 |
Every poem is its own world, in which is writ
a story which into reality bends
as it forms and into our minds conceived
as a strophe which is played
on strings which create reality.
Is it then the writer or reader or was it
them both who made it so ?
From whence did it originate,
and in whom is the seed planted
to blossom at some later point,
and how will it look when it flourished?
Ah, did I once read and then write to plant it
without knowing what I did
as I hurried along, only to remember now ?
Whom are you who reads this,
then as I, hurry on to the next,
not knowing you might be me later on
but didn't think of it before
you sat down and wrote until
the thought of it appeared ?
I only hope you do it better
so that I may read it and appreciate. |
 |