At times i wonder if poetry is man.
For it knows how to put words to heal, build,destroy and to hurt a soul.
I wonder it its made or a man's genes.
For it speaks louder to the deaf and soflty to those who live to understand it.
But what if poetry is a man and it means no harm?
And all it seek oe a hand of a maiden to put meanings into its words.
Then if poetry is a man,
It surely have a heart,
For it understands laceration along with lamentation
But what if poetry isn't a maiden and it knows no heart?
What is poetry is no human but a metaphor?
What if poetry is a man longing for a maiden to occupy his palace?
What if poetry is a woman whose armour is fragmented by the pieces of her previous adulation?
What if poetry is a maifen who have long been in lamentation and only longing to be loved?
What if poetry isn't a man nor a woman,
But a silenced voice of a crying soul?
But what if poetry isn'ta man but a verse under the shade of a man's voice?
What if poetry is a tree and it longs to bore seeds of laceration while its roots are in lamentation?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem