Source
The unformed tears of a nostalgic poet, the composer's own reverie that wavers in the chords of his music, rob me of sleep.
I am robbed of rest by the unfulfilled anxiety of the boredom of silence, the resentment nesting in the genesis of a love envied in solitude.
I am deprived of rest by the parsimony of time that invites me to look at the time at every instant, the destiny of my path interrupted by the remoteness of an endless poetic verse.
I am deprived of sleep by not knowing if I will wake up when I close my eyes, if it has all been a dream, the revealing mystery of the incongruous.
I cannot rest knowing myself to be part of a poem or a mere spectator of these poetic wakes.
For the soul of art allows no truce, it harasses with its rapturous inspiration, it finds no rest until dreams become embodied reality.