LAST CYCLE © 2008

It is said that in silence the word falls silent,

But how, if the voracious thought never falters?

It roams the labyrinths of the mind without rest,

In search of texture, of verb, of enchantment.

The infinite mind, in a frenzy without cure,

Redraws the canvas of its own madness.

Dialogues arise, without limit or censure,

Where the inner voice never knows tenderness.

Never measured, nor contained, these echoes acclaim,

Without the ruler of balance, the senses inflame.

And so, in silence, the word gains colour,

Even without being spoken, it lives with fervour.

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