THE POEM
We talk merely to sell the ironmongery
of ourselves. In the marshy pool
of everything we say,
we waste words
like wind that moves the sluggish rushes,
the reed-bed.
But suddenly
a duck takes flight
and its feathers gleam
with colours:
the poem.
Listen to the beating of wings, gaze at it,
your shotguns of silence
lowered, for now.
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Good poem. xx
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The poet is Catalan and I think this is wonderful. Glad you enjoyed it! Xx
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beautiful poem; I thought it was yours till I saw the attribution. thank you for sharing it with us
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I am flattered that you would think it mine, but it was the work of someone infinitely better than me!
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