The metaphors are misleading
And the paintings of panoramas
Are blocking my view of the mountains.
Can our poetry get lost in the meaning?
In simple rhymes too easily
Contained within a blank page?

Benign are the busts
Of sterile stones they admire,
But my lips are only crushed against visual art.
Miró and Dalí painted the mysteries
That nationalists and artists admire differently
The brilliance of the sun
May shines on everyone,
But no shadow is cast
If you stand before a painting.

Art mimics Nature
Like exhaust fumes mimic a cloud.
And though they may find it easy to rest
Comfortably in a shroud of glory
That revolves around them like everything else,
Poets must remain unknown
unseen
Like hunchbacks ringing cathedral bells
We hide
While the throngs come to see the art,
We speak whispered words
to Esmeralda,
While the throngs come to see the dancers,
And we are lonely,
Invisible souls read by so few,
Perhaps not even by you.

The brilliance of thought
Can shine in your mind,
Expressed emotions,
Can be cradled in words;
Poets paint with no colors,
Sculpt with no chisel,
And dance on no stages,
But we do form the replies
To the silent questions of the Ages...