Poem inside me

 I am the sum of the silences in the monastery where the poem is electrified with mysticism, where the poem is filled with mystery which fills the sidereal void that the soul carries in the understanding of its presence here below, and in the projection of possibilities of its provenance, before its incarnation to live this world, where the continuation of its eternity is determined, as ion, in cosmology and cosmogony determining the invisible power of life, through beliefs, through this innate need for every individual to understand themselves and above all to grasp deep within themselves that there is a power beyond life and its materiality, beyond the things that stir up the desire to live the pleasures of the flesh indefinitely.

I like the poem because it transports me to the depths of myself, it transports me to the confines of its convolutions so that I know what I am made of and that I realize the opportunities that its presence in my sensibility brings, so that I always try to leave room for its strength, which differently dissects the realities that fate displays to me, with or without afflictions, and reveals their true meaning beyond the charm of their appearance or the severity of their irruption, where it seems normal to trust or mistrust them.

I am the poem in its tabernacle, because there everything is naked, a revealing nakedness of the intrinsic value of everything that appears, appears and exists; and in the solicitude of its power, I have the spirit which reads the exactitude of each thing, in the dose which it is necessary, and of all being; intuition, in its divinity, imposes the veracity of everything while the eyes and the ears are fascinated. Drunk with what they think they have understood from what they perceive.

I am not a poet, it is the poet who exists in me, it is from him that each text comes to me, each time that I have to write, he invites me into the meanders of his palace to instruct me of the letter that I have to transcribe, also affirming that the inspiration is his and not mine, because he is jealous that I receive the honors which are his. When he reveals himself, my body is not in a trance, but a monolith of passivity inside which his chemical and magic potion mixes to express the quintessence of the image imprinted in my pupils, I only become the instrument at the service of his poetry, carrying the intensity of the words and verbs by which he wants to say the world, piercing me with emotions and revelations.

At the end of this session, my heart is light, exhausted by the exercise, but filled with humility, aware of the complexity of the poem and the poet. Silence and solitude prove to be a necessity in order to contemplate the world with the wisdom of a centenarian; I feel detached from the appetites behind which successes and failures here below are determined, and, what I am sure of, is the life - that I live - rid of the quintal of evils and feelings that prevents you from savoring in its fullness the happiness that perches in the harmless little things that each day offers us. The poem is cathartic. That's how I feel.