Poetic Knowledge Is Born In The Great

Poetic Knowledge Is Born In The Great Silence Of Scientific Knowledge.

I Would Rediscover The Secret Of Great Communications And Great Combustions. I Would Say Storm. I Would Say River. I Would Say Tornado. I Would Say Leaf. I Would Say Tree. I Would Be Drenched By All Rains, Moistened By All Dews. I Would Roll Like Frenetic Blood On The Slow Current Of The Eye Of Words Turned Into Mad Horses Into Fresh Children Into Clots Into Curfew Into Vestiges Of Temples Into Precious Stones Remote Enough To Discourage Miners. Whoever Would Not Understand Me Would Not Understand Any Better The Roaring Of A Tiger.

The Weakness Of Most Men They Do Not Know How To Become A Stone Or Tree.

Out Of The Sky, The Birds, The Parrots, The Bells, Silk, Cloth, And Drums, Out Of Sundays Dancing, Children's Words And Love Words, Out Of Love For The Little Fists Of Children, I Will Build A World, My World With Round Shoulders.

Beware, My Body And My Soul, Beware Above All Of Crossing Your Arms And Assuming The Sterile Attitude Of The Spectator, For Life Is Not A Spectacle, A Sea Of Griefs Is Not A Proscenium, And A Man Who Wails Is Not A Dancing Bear.