Poetry is prose altered into spirit.
The poet is a painter who cannot afford paint, a sculptor who cannot lift the stone. A deaf musician playing the wind to see violins that could be heard. The poet is that stray dog lingering where the village ends — where the wolves feast and the loose women laugh uproariously.
A thought that aches and melts sadness into wonder, happiness into a requiem, love into absence, cold into a dream, warmth into indifference. To play.
A river stone dreaming of mountains.
Like a child.
If the world had been made of poets, it would exist without Adam and Eve, like a cave devoid of trees, yet filled with rainbowing echoes.
Today is World Poetry Day.
In a different world.
Today is still your birthday, mine, theirs, and everyone who wanders in echoes.
Let us celebrate it together.
Because, like all of us, it doesn't exist.