You

If I have to listen to myself,

I am to listen to me

I am to listen to I;

the sea to its whisperings,

the interval between those whisperings

where many unsaid words

have more meanings;

so listening to myself

I am to listen to you

to your self

to what you did not utter;

like my other life

when it arrives without warning

without even one single peal

of a tiny bell

like a pre-winter breeze

fresh and shaved

and as smooth

as the table of my poetry.

And by listening to myself

I will arrive at your door,

slip through the crevice

between the same door and the floor

and help you taste

the crispy sunlight

the nippy breeze,

the laughter of children

mixed with the sand

and the shore of their life;

hand you a spoonful of honey

bought from the market of humanity;

to stir up the freedom of your thoughts

sleeping curled and naked like a question mark

under blankets of a fast life,

apathy,

selfishness.