At night and the soft patter of rain, there exists a poet – an alchemist of lexicon, a weaver of dreams. Yes, a poet whose essence is distilled into words that burn with fervor, that ache with longing, and that mourn for what once was. This poet is an embodiment of stories untold, of voyages across the vast landscapes of imagination, and of all that is forever sought but never quite found.
Like the relentless ocean waves driven by the tempest’s breath, the poet’s spirit surges toward the shores of expression, each word a crest rising higher, each verse a force more formidable. Yet, there stands an unseen boundary, a command whispered by the moon’s silvery glow, halting the fervent advance: “This is your limit.” And so, the poet recedes, pulled back by an invisible tide, the moon’s decree echoing in the ebb and flow.
But there stirs a promise within the poet’s soul, a vow whispered in the shadows of creation. A day will come when silence will break, when the barriers will crumble, and a deluge of ink and parchment will sweep over the silent city. The poet feels it – a primal urge, a quiver in the bones, a current biding its time, waiting for the celestial dance that will unleash its power.
When the moment arrives, under the cloak of a lunar eclipse, the poet will rise. With a voice that thunders and words that cascade like lightning through the stormy seas, the poet will claim the world. A maelstrom of creativity, a tempest of expression – the poet will roar, and the world will listen, awash in the beauty of unleashed passion.
Copyright © Beatriz Esmer
Beatriz Esmer 