—Are you a writer? She asked.

–I like to write, yes. But I’m not considering myself as a writer – He answered her with a smooth sound from his tongue.

—What do you write then? She asked again.

– Poetry, I believe – He replied into her eyes. – I really don’t know what that actually means – He continues mooning in her thoughts.

– What I write,

                            is real,

                                          is love,

                                                         is true,

                                                                         is alive…

He whispered her.

After an eternal silence, he declaimed:

–  Anyone can write,

we’ve learned it.

It was imposed on us.

Yet, I’m not the writer,

there’s no “Me” here.

There’s only one energy

that drives the being

to express itself

through the beauty of the word.

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