For every word I ever wrote to you, there are a few more untold,
Not for lack of verbal skills, ink, gold, boldness or finger tips,
Nor abundance of pills for trance, arrogance or cowardice.
Blame Chronos, who casts the whitewashed dice
On which carved in black is the minute I have won.
During that minute I scribble the possible word
Hoping that per se it will suffice.
And even when I am granted the grand number six
Some words are set aside by a short-term mood.
Hence what I thought I did not write,
What I wrote was just its fragment,
What you read was but its scent,
Yet you think you understood.
Poor semantics, limited verb,
Curtailed antics, almost absurd,
That is what you will comprehend,
Though fairly far from my first content.
Then comes the hour when I crave for a gift that could unfold
All those words that weren’t told, which would flow from lips
Directly linked to all my past, to every virtue of my vice.
It would be fully enveloped
Enclosing not prose, but image,
Thoughts, sounds and senses,
All the yes’s and the no’s,
All the roots, all the branches
Of which I am composed
Delivered in a single note
Carried by a dove... or not.
For at last we could choose any bird.
