Pity those that mock the poet
Who have science in their eyes
Zeros and ones on their tongues
They see light refractions instead of moonbeams
They speak of chemical trails instead of marauding dragons
How hollow the heart
That doesn’t revel in the unknown … the unsaid
The poor soul that thinks
This four-chambered muscle is for distributing blood
Instead of harnessing lightning bolts of desire
Those that measure spaces between seeds
Miss the marvel of green sprouts
They seek comfort in explanations
As if hope a thing to be seen under a microscope
Faith a thing accountable to proof
Yes, pity those without music soaring up their spine
Raising hairs at the nape
How do they taste the wind?
How do they feel the colour of happiness?
How do they paint their daydreams?
What misfortune they suffer
To see a rock in my hand
And not the splendour of infinity
