The world is always open, Waiting to be discovered.
Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.
Will the day tell its secret Before it disappears, Becomes timeless night.
Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.
Nothing is made, nothing disappears. The same changes, at the same places, never stopping.
A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.