Poetry II

What do we find there?
Why do poets die of hunger
more than once a day?

I watch your naked body
like I watch the flames...
everything you were before has been stripped away.

What do we find there?
Why do poets walk the weary road
and lie in a dark corner on the floor?

You are silence, my lady,
but from your womb words are born.

Restless lovers play amidst the stars,
they seek you
they know every line of your face unknown,
they want to remain in the well of silence
underneath the warm blankets of thy heart
and yet they know their lips
ache to name words
like you paint the skies.

 Ekiwah Adler Beléndez