A poem hovers at the edge
of the mind, amorphous,
trying to take form,
to come into existence,
to be written down,
given permance
as much as there is
in this universe
born from the void,
on this planet where
libraries and bookshops
are burned and the arsonists
celebrated, each burned
book declared to be
an act of self-defence.
But, the poem, hovering
on the edge of the mind,
trying to be born,
never becomes more
than this, a poem
that remembers it.
30.03.2025
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