The Origin of Poetry

Poetry itself, like fog, has no origin.It’s colorless, because it’s deeper than color.It’s the weightlessness of language where the shadow’s ladderdoesn’t actually connect to the straight vault.It’s the utterly silent clock; it doesn’t actually recordthe difference between life and death. It stands eternallyon the other side of opposition and unity. It doesn’t liketo walk in the homeland of logic, becausebees’ buzzing and shepherds’ bugle horns are rejected there.Poetry is a featherlike strand of smoke on the paper window of  the unconscious.It’s not the actual bodies of birds,it’s the gloomy memory of flight.Its aim is to set sail but there is no fixed port.It’s another kind of adventure and descent for words.The most wondrous thing is that when they get halfway through  the journey,they have no way to describe the arrival point there on the bay.Poetry is stars and dewdrops, breezes and dawn light.It’s trembling and radiance reflected in some soul.It’s the eternal withering away, the possibility of the moment of  continuance.It’s the existence of nonexistence.It’s the ripples shimmering in nothingness.Poetry is the faint fire in the cinders, the transparent dome.Poetry is always looking for people who belong to it,accompanying the cycle of life and death.Poetry is the beginning of silence; it’s the denial that one plus one  equals two.Poetry doesn’t offer a mask; it presents the sighs behind the mask.Poetry is what gives the universe three or more.It’s the autumn shredded by crickets, the gold raindrops sprinkledon the wings of turtledoves. It’s the ravings of flowers and lovers.It’s all that we’ve lost, the blankness in all the forgotten human  languagesPoetry opens its eyes wide, standsin the middle of the public square, looking at all the passersby.It’s always waiting and choosing: who’s more suitable?It’s said that whoever is unlucky or lucky enough to be chosen  by it—That person is a poet.