Ielehiah

Put only all your words in paper soon If all the inspiration comes to light The breathing that fills the bluest sky Come through the empty space in pantaloon. I feel it running through the blood vessel And hang up all my body above the sea I poetize, and when I sing them in full cells That one called inspiration gives me grief. Here, quiet, in my thought, the unhappy end Believes that the poetry is like a shooting So fast and so much vehement and it tends To let be alone who has rhymes fluting. Oh, Poetry, tell us now: how many we are? Just me and Solitude are two so far.