FORGIVE ME, MY POETRY
Today, on Book Day,
I speak to poetry:
How often we hurt you, dear,
Sometimes,
Throwing you on shelves
Like household items.
You are not like a sheep
We milk in the pen.
You are a wild pearl,
A chestnut burr,
To grasp your essence,
We must bloody our hands.
Sometimes morning dew,
Sometimes the scorching sun,
A burning song
For a hungry soul,
You cannot be confined
Like an hour of the day.
You refuse a cage,
Like air, you are
Poetry...