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What do you write for, they ask me,
with disdain in their eyes
if my verses are only echoes
that the wind carries at random.
If the blank page, trembling
awaits the dance of the sun,
and my dreams slip
in each word, in each line.
Why spill ink in the night?
if it is silence that carries the voice?
If the forests do not hear my complaints
nor the stars my cries, farewell.
But in each letter there is a world,
in every rhyme, there is a being,
and even if the song reaches only a few,
in my soul, I sing it too.
I write for those who have no voice,
for those who dream in the dark,
creating falls of hope
in a sea of uncertainty and loneliness.
