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The poet

April 25, 2014


His words bring kindness into the sound

to whom he tends the friendly hands,

to those who come from the walk of life

and will never arrive,

with their yellow and bare feet.

Syllables that come and pose briefly

beholding his enlightened face

and then leave;

the sadness frightens them

like a waving of a slap.

Rhythm that becomes entangled in his throat

and runs over his gaze into the space,

verbs that have the power of a blow

and total serenity at sunset.

It seems to make no sense

writing these marginal lines,

carefully, Samuel Ferrer

is better to say it in verse

and never fear the wounds of a daunting laugh.


From → Philosophy

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