di penghujung senja engkau menulis sajak, sebuah elegi, yang hendak menelusur jejak: airmata

di jemarimu, puisi adalah kandil yang bertahan tak padam, dihembus angin malam

"bicaralah, biar sunyi yang akan mengkhidmati," ujar malam kepadamu, yang merasa asing sendiri.

"aku ingin menulis sajak, tapi mengapa puisi tak datang padaku?" tanyamu.

mungkin puisi enggan datang kepadamu, penyair yang gagal menangkap isyarat, tanda-tanda, yang berulang disampaikan. cerminmu terlalu berdebu

At the End of Twilight

at the end of the evening you wrote a poem, an elegy, which will trace the traces: tears

in your fingers, poetry is a candlestick that remains unextinguished, blown by the night wind

"Speak, let silence serve you," said the night to you, who felt like a stranger.

"I want to write poetry, but why doesn't poetry come to me?" you ask.

Maybe poetry is reluctant to come to you, poets who fail to catch the signals, signs, which are repeatedly conveyed. your mirror is too dusty

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_{Posted from https://blurtlatam.intinte.org}