When I was a chrysalis I dreamt to turn in to a butterfly, epitomising and celebrating with the graceful flight of my wings all the beauty of the world.
But metamorphosis wasn’t succesful. I turned into a moth. A clumsy, gray moth that can only epitomise and celebrate mediocrity.
Not for that I can’t see beauty. Every night I’m so attracted by light that I risk getting burnt to get closer to it.
When I was a child I dreamt to be a poet to celebrate with my words all the beauty of life. But I never turned into a poet. My awkward hand always fails to transform in words my feelings.
Not for that I can’t see the beauty of poetry. And every day I risk getting burnt by my feverish passion to get closer to it.