It was not the lack of thoughts, words, or inspiration.
It was just trying so hard…
in the wrong language.
When she found out, she had to make a big first effort to learn
how to express herself in a way
she was not used to.
With an accent that she couldn’t even pronounciate.
Like a complete stranger
doing something she did for all her life.
Suddenly the words flew like a waterfall.
She could feel a cold winter wind beat her in the face.
and that first feeling of distance getting smaller really quick
Untill it gave place to
proximity. Familiarity.
Home
And though, sometimes, she used the words in a wrong way,
or used the same words too many times
- because she didn’t possessed more words to say what she meant
or felt -
She was not intimidated,
Because poetry is not to be written right.
It is written to be wrong.
It is written ‘cause that waterfall had to leak.
It is written because she is in love in another language.
And being so,
how could she say this in her own?
Language.
The weirdest feeling took her:
She was still that lady writer.
The words were smiling at her again,
- playing like kids in the paper sheet -
as her fingers couldn’t stop typing.
And it was not the lack of thoughts.
It was the need of saying them to the rest of the world.
- and to him.
