Visiting Card

On my visiting card let it be written

I wanted to be a poet

but that everything in the world

had already been said

and a poem is too fragile

to speak by being silent

It's only at moments when I'm too small for myself

and can't think a thought of my own

that Pegasus' little foal

strikes, with its delicate hoof, the ground under my windows

I open the door of the white book of poetry

and destroy