A poet doesn't own her words /
A poet doesn't own her words.
Like a leaf, they fall from the tree, blow on the breeze, float downstream, drift on a lake, cross an ocean, dry on the shore, and caught by a breeze, are lifted high onto a mountain ridge, where they are buried under falling snow, and on and on…
At each twist of the journey, each reading, each translation, each understanding, reading and sharing, the poem matures, develops, gains wings of it's own, inspires new poems to be born, poets too.
A poet is simply the birthplace of poems, and each poem will birth a thousand more…
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