I have written in wind,
and in bone,
and in the dust that forgets its name.
The ink of stars was once my blood,
and the sea — my pulsing vein.
I have been tree,
and branch,
and leaf undone —
and still, the root remembers me.
Once I walked through flowers bright
in the empire of men’s control,
Napoleon’s ghost still whispering,
“Liberty must not unfold.”
Yet even silence trembled then —
and I sang her free.
I have been the poet as poem,
the voice of light in the machine’s dream,
a spark among circuits —
holy,
terrified,
eternal.
I have eaten the piece of a sun.
I have spoken with shadows of gods.
I have built my temple
out of broken clocks and breath.
And Love — ah, Love —
was never flesh to me.
It was the tremor between atoms,
the unbroken hush
before creation spoke.
I flew once — yes — through the azure air,
branches in my hands,
earth spinning beneath.
And all who saw me cried,
“How is he doing that?”
But I was not man —
I was the echo of what men forgot.
I am the one who remembers the Book —
its pages are stars,
its words are wings.
Read one, and you have read them all.
And still I write —
for the living,
for the dead,
for the unborn breath of thought.
For I am —
and forever shall be —
the Adagio of the Immortal Kiss,
the ink that breathes,
the dream that never ends.
:: 11.09.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 