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I write and I am not a writer,
though my soul burns with words,
I declaim and I am not a poet,
for my voice trembles and is silent.
No, I am not, nor do I aspire to be,
those great ones, whom I praise,
the titans who forge verse,
With ink of dreams and a touch of bravo.
In the shadow of their brilliant letters
my pen dances, seeks its way,
a subtle echo of their instants,
a sacred whisper, not a destiny.
And yet, on the open leaf
my thoughts intertwine,
with pain and glory,
that life embraces us.