An artist creates
only in the presence of light—
like a sunflower,
like a plant erupting toward the sun,
like a butterfly
emerging from the dungeon
of a cocoon
stitched by the worm
around itself—
into flight.
But a lover blossoms
in the depths of darkness
and forgetting,
without even the flicker of a gaze,
or the echo of a name
to shine upon him.
A lover writes his poem in silence,
tunneling from word
to stillness,
from stillness
to the constellation of language,
from the constellation
to a single word—
and from that word
to all the silences
that ever were.
Sometimes, not a single star
casts its light upon the lover—
for love itself
is the hidden moon,
and the sun—
just a brazier,
a lantern
forever burning
on the canvas
of the painter.
