«What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music. » (Kierkegaard)
A modest proposal for an alternate version: «“What is a poet?” A poet is not someone that could be anything else but “be”. A being that feels life to the painful depths of real meaning, where he can really see the truths hidden by the bright light of the day. “To be” means being able to raise your mind high enough to have a glimpse at the eternal truths beyond appearances. The poet conceals, in his heart, pearls of translucent milky light whose radiance, sometimes, reach his hands creating a rainbow of meaning on the blank pages. His lips will never be able to pass over the echo of such a beautiful music. Only his soul and his hands matters» (Dr. Divago)
