Languages

I speak three languages.

The first is Portuguese,
With the "Rs" pronounced deep in the throat—rrrrr.
A romance language, rich in beauty and vast vocabulary.
Its structure grid, a maze.
Its dominance, for those who truly
Master this bull.

The second is English,
A pragmatic language,
Playful, yet direct.
Everyone and anyone can speak it,
Not that it is easy—for it is not—
But it can be diluted
For and by the deluded,
Who believe by birthright
They have mastered it.

The third, my most beloved
And beautiful,
Poetry!
But it's not for the faint of heart—I kid you not.
It’s hard and complex.
Few can speak it,
Or write it,
Let alone read it.
Most cannot understand it.

I speak, read, and write in Portuguese,
—And English.
And somewhere in between,
A meeting of the minds occurs,
Where on most occasions,
"Is easy,"
I code, you decode.
You code, I decode.
We are done,
Communication happens.

But Poetry?
Poetry is a lonely language.
I write it, I speak it,
I can read it,
All the lines, around and in between them.
It requires vulnerability,
An open mind and heart
To catch its nuances—
To peeeel the layers.
But most, don’t have the time to spare.

For the writer,
Breaking through the fourth wall
Is like finding north without a compass—
An ancient art,
A science from the days
We traveled by constellations.

A captain without a ship,
Providing a map
Connecting letters like stars,
Hoping to lead voyagers
Through the murky waters of metaphors
and symbolisms, and at times, a little altercation with alliteration, to find the place
Where all veins meet—the port.

To rest assured
The message—on paper, but not in the bottle—
Arrived safely.
But not everyone can solve the riddle
And reach the shore.

No, poetry is not for the faint of heart.
I code,
Who decodes?
Is there anyone out there???

Is there?
Is there anyone out there???