A place to live

A place to live

We don’t make things up. Poetry is a country, a place where we live, where we go, where we move. A country is soil and ours is made of wind, meaning, thoughts, emotions. We look, we listen, we taste, we almost touch and feel a texture, a movement, a breath sometimes, a strange life.

So here are the words that listen, that approach, that pass and pass again and again and settle a little like colours on the canvas of time or like birds in the branches of silence. Here are the words that you feel, that you hear, that you touch inside but that are not inside you; images come, sentences germinate, a rhythm warps the silence, a country reveals itself, a corner of the word, a neighbourhood of being in the world, a beach of life out of time.

You don’t invent much.

Poetry is a country

A place to live

A home where you wait.