I'll keep looking for you my poet

Poetry has always been an obsession of mine. I still remember by heart the first poem I wrote at the age of six, talking about winter, pine trees, snow and reading books with mama sitting by the fire. Later as a teenager I used to spend hours lying in my bed trying to imagine the exact colour of Rimbaud eyes while listening to Jim Morrison.

Then came Mahler, both a blessing and a curse, Dylan, Cohen, Chagall, Béjart, Scotland and its cliffs and birds. Pain and pleasure. Salt on my lips bleeding to the cut of the wind.

As time went by, I sometimes lost a bit of my magical dust on the way. I got wary. I grew old. My faith in the invisible was confused and fell asleep. I rested. Shut my mind. But it's a fight I want to keep, constantly, with open heart. I might as well get used to dance, even when I'm asleep.

Fight for beauty while I breathe.

Breathe until my ghosts face me on my broken mirror.

Breathe and carry like a cracking doll.

Breathe in the space between your fingertips and your lips for I never forgot this frozen paradise.

Breathe and give a fresh grasp on your soul, floating and almost touching me.

Breathe with the wind and the liquid gold it might bring on its way.

Breathe with a maddening desire to cross the fire I barely see amidst darkness. Whisky drops on my veins.

For each step I take closer to the cliffs, my very life will be stolen and a new pulse will rise, magnet to the sky.

And this pulse will beat to the howling wind, like a death song for the blessed.

It will beat to the next bird cry.

It will beat to this boat that bleeds the sky in two. Your choice and mine.

And you wait for your own boat to come, a white shadow on the sea, a lightning, and it's gone.

Let us drink to the salt of the earth.