Just remember, to the people,
an artist is a stranger.
To all life that builds, and
needs --
the very least will be of love
of poetry.
I remember too often about Twain,
living his days in simpler days,
even then in cabins, always desolate
living his days in a world that forgets.
I think often is this how great people live?
Always in a town, a country, a time,
too blind and knowing what they say?
A poet is not such like people,
whom chatter nothing in the markets.
A book of parchment is so precious,
it's like refined gold and silver
woven into pages
worth more than a day of eating
breadsticks
bought with money.
-V I L L A N U E V A
07.01.2022
