How cold, print-like and flat!
How digital have become my eyes, my lips and my memory?
No trace of ink on my fingers, when I struggle
to touch on the soul of a faraway spring,
or the fear of a spring to come!
And when a phrase tickles my mind
and pours out of me,
I am often looking at the crowded road,
Surrounded by the scent of American highways,
And there is no scratch, no friction, no stroke,
when I materialize on a fake digital page.
Frozen, like a narrow creek in a harsh winter,
this is how digital my poetic life is, at the beginning of the spring!
How digital have become my eyes, my lips and my memory?
No trace of ink on my fingers, when I struggle
to touch on the soul of a faraway spring,
or the fear of a spring to come!
And when a phrase tickles my mind
and pours out of me,
I am often looking at the crowded road,
Surrounded by the scent of American highways,
And there is no scratch, no friction, no stroke,
when I materialize on a fake digital page.
this is how digital my poetic life is, at the beginning of the spring!
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