Poem
The Breath of Heaven
A meeting between the poet and the written word.
โThe worldโs continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.โ โ Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H.
The poet names the breath of heaven, now denied
By a fountain pen that relies solely on the soul.
Oh, belated poem that melts its memory as a whole,
How to handle all the unbroken lines that are wide
And take up endless room in a heart, for they hide
What voice is unable to speak โ (word like the mole
Retains the innermost emotion of the rushed life).
The holy vision that rooted in the experience abide
By provisions from infinitude in which art is rife.
And so the dutiful prophet craves for a rhyme
With which to lift a roof to envision the open sky:
Woe to poets, no spirit can sculpt like the knife โ
If there is any way to get hold of dreaded time,
Then why not imagine the ink in oneโs hand [ why?
ยฉ Diana Dolea (2024 All Rights Reserved)
I confess that I longed to be part of Scrittura โ now I am here and my soul feels uplifted. Endless thanks to the editors for embracing my voice.
