When I was a child a dense swarm of bees
Poured into my mouth pure forest honey.
So it happened with Isidore of Seville
when he was just a nipper, legend says.
Everyone expected of me the eloquence
Of a saint in Damask, a rethorician in Athens.
But nobody, not even my mother knew
About those bees having already sipped
into the white asphodels down in Hades ,
into the delusive oleanders in Arcadia.
Nobody expected of me to be a poet,
a secret polisher of words, the amanuensis
of the invisible...
I still can listen their humming on my lips.
(2006)
