In memoriam Dylan Thomas


I in my intricate image, stride on two levels,

Well refined. With only one regret:

That I don’t stride on more.


The first, the essence of myself:

Like a tortoise in its shell,

Dwelling in itself; with one exception.

Ducking my head back inside

I see the world in the colour of blue.


The other, a seldom appraised affection:

Giving in to rythmn like a drum,

Exulting in the pureness of words

Like nothing could disturb my joy.


I tell those secrets of mine

Only to the winds.