Poetry, like any art form is unique and necessary when investigating the truth of human experience, where beauty is not artificial, but the conviction or excitement. Where any complaint is lament of all, because joy can not be privileged few. They are the cries that reach the sky, the celestial heights of joy already. The poem celebrates the pain of the man who is desperate for a joy that is far from the land reduced to rubble. It 's the hopelessness that gives rise to the rebellion of the soul, searching for herself the beauty of being a divine breath, far from the tumult of a crowd celebrating Christmas as corrupt illusion of salvation or folly, without the possibility of repentance.
laugh, it's Christmas
Let me live life to the forest
away from lions and circus
in the fury of wild thoughts
find the idea that leads to the mystery.
Misery, misery of the people
sing the remains of a cathedral
that no longer applies.
Occasionally
is heard even roar like the lion tears
foreigner who no longer afraid. There
leaves heart dismay
The song on the roofs of owls?
We laugh, we laugh it's Christmas.
are the remains of a cathedral.
Let me live life to the forest
away from lions and circus
in the fury of wild thoughts
find the idea that leads to the mystery.
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