Poetry

Beyond dreams, 
a wise lake, watching my absurdity, 
of playing with the tyranny 
of absolute. And I am trying 
to remember, who had said, 
that the core victim was me; 
in simile, 
to a drowning boat. 
 
I remained, 
a small seed, still 
waiting till eternity to find a 
thread of light, which should reach 
the depth of the dust, the stone 
the water, awakening me to 
send my radical, going down, 
down into the evasive words.