Poetry, to the Poet

 
: You are my one and only poet!
Will you give me a poem? Brand new, still warm from birth…will you?
Hey, are you listening, poet? Give me a poem!
…wrapped in tenderness, swathed in love?
: What are you, tell me? Ah, how beautiful your word-weaving is, how perfect — such simple longing…
: You always exaggerate, now I understand! Well, you've read it then, I'm happy with that!
Why do you exaggerate so much? Am I distant to you? Fine then, when will you give me the poem?
: Oh, I'll write it, dear! Why so impatient? Does time flee from your hands?
: You truly write wonderfully! Just one poem…only for me…please write it!
: What trouble this is! What shall I do now! Words upon words flood my mind…I think of you, and forget all words!
: Enough, stop now. Take paper and pen in hand! Sit down to write! The words will come surely…
: Ah dear, I'm writing, wait! Why do you chatter so? Now come closer and let down your hair…look this way…
: Yes, I'm coming, sir!…I've let down my hair…now tell me, will you only write? Or will you draw as well? Why did you call me close?
: What are you saying! When you come so near, should I lose this chance by merely drawing and writing? Should I not touch you?
The writing will happen, the drawing will happen…but this fire you've lit in me, what will extinguish it? Why don't you understand?
: What are you saying? I know how to write…it needs paper, needs a pen…what fire is there in that?
: You understand nothing! To write, everything is needed! You are needed, fire is needed, even…I am needed!
: Is that so, poet! Is that why you write only at night? And when night ends, you flee and wander? What's the mystery?
: Don't you know that either? Listen then…when night falls, birth descends, death retreats, life dances! In night's body, everything is precious!
: If that's so, then know this, poet,…if night-poems fade in daylight, in those poems I am not there, only my shadow remains!