Sometimes
when I walk
I think of verses.
And most times they
vanish without trail.
But there are days
where I don’t let them go.
I recite them out loud to myself
constantly
as asking them not to leave
that everything is fine,
that I can nourish them
into a beautiful,
well… at least
meaningful
poem.
And sometimes they go away all the same.
And sometimes they stick to me.
When I’m able to stop
to write them now
I find often that I can’t.
My hands and thought are not ready
to enclose the verses I found
on my walk.
This is why the best
poetry books
are not on libraries
or on colleges,
neither on notebooks of passionate teenaged boys
or sad sensitive girls,
not even in drawers of bearded men
that let their dreams slip through
their fingers
but
on dirty roads,
on chaotic cities,
being kicked around by apathic crowds,
flowing through the foam of rivers and lakes,
flying on the beak of an old bird
that is building its last nest
with the verses
I forgot.
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