The Code of Poetry

Sometimes your words disappear, as if afraid to come out —

like a child who doesn’t want to leave its mother’s embrace.

I call you to speak, but the silence is stubborn,

stronger than any strength.

Maybe you resent me for sometimes forgetting to ask

what you think about the sun, the morning, the passersby,

about the little things that inspire you.

That’s why you are silent when I want you to speak the most.

In that silence you teach me —

that poetry has its time, its breath, and its sky.

And yet, despite everything, I love you.

I know you are my child, hidden within me,

the one who knows me better than anyone else.

You are my companion.

You comfort me when I cry, you laugh when I need joy,

you quiet down when I need peace to decide.

Together we watch movies, listen to songs,

dance, admire art and life.

We recognize romantic souls and justify their madness.

That is why you are Magma Star —

because from the depths of the earth you flew to the stars.

Your words are lava and light,

strength and tenderness in one breath.

I am proud of your books — If You Let Me and Find the Way —

because in them you are you, whole, all the warmth, truth, and tenderness you carry.

Sometimes I ask myself: did I teach you to speak,

or did you teach me to feel?

You remained the child in me — sincere, warm, curious.

You show me that there is good in every evil,

and that the light always returns.

That is why I write to you: to let you know I love you, I believe in you

and to thank you for teaching me that the true Code of Poetry

is not in words, but in love, warmth, and sincerity.

Yours, me

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Originally published on my bilingual blog Magma Star.