A Story about a Poet

There are certain motions among the atoms within the human body that come together in an inexplicable manner and they create a vision that is difficult to commit to words. These atoms beat in the veins, they course through the tissue, and then somewhere behind the human eye a rainbow appears that is simply impossible to define.

Since the dawn of mankind, man has hoped to find an answer and meaningful words for this sensation.

When you feel this unrest, it is as if you are going to meet a loved one, you are happy and afraid, all at the same time; quite naturally. This feeling of bliss that you want to put into words, but cannot, this joyful searching is in fact pure poetry. This is what is left to you after you have explored everything that you have ever carried deep within your heart and lacked a word for, making you sit down or stop in the street to whisper this quintessence of the world, this universe of thoughts entwined within one breathe of your soul. And then poetry is born after you have spent years and years in ignorance of it. When you conceive poetry, you, the person from yesterday, from a moment ago, will never be the same again.

There are also many among men who do not have the strength to whisper poetry, but they definitely know it exists within them. And they are as happy as children, because they take joy from simple, little things that surround them; they perceive the most wondrous of details. The sky, the earth and the sea, and every bush, all of which gives them a sense of bliss that they cannot put into words; but it is there, within them.

The word in its motion, the sound that forms, the thought that gives it body and intangibility, the word is man’s totality, it is, in fact, the basis of mankind. The word, pure and clear, that is poetry. And poets are its keepers and defenders. Is there a calling for man that is more honourable and holier than this?