The poet does not eat bread
And does not make noises
The slow heart beat is loud enough
To keep the poet awake
He does not walk nor fly
He opens the windows to jump out
And wash his face in the town spring.
A bit like god, you whisper.
No, a bit like the cold breath of a dead friend, I say.
He will not ask how the weather
Might be in those far away lands
Just vanish out of sight
Once you got used to his uncomfortable presence.