Poetry is more than painting sunlight on the side of a house.
Perhaps then, poetry is also more than the choreographed dance that people so carefully step to, trying to find if the other is worthy of spending more than a short few moments with, while sipping caffeinated beverages punctuated with “ino”.
In the April night’s
For his exiled life’s
For his sorrow’s smart;
My heart it is, my heart…
~ Émile Nelligan (translated by P. F. Widdows).
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