I am extreme to infinity.
At dawn every morning
I sow with my hands a sinful desire.
I feed him with my breast,
on the ledge of expectations, of the muse.
I feel how the head of thought grows,
and goes deep into the grooves of my brain.
Night and day I grind it in the stone mill.
Poetry rock head like me.
Sometimes I forget to water it with my tears.
I step on it, at the other end
I make cider from the harvest of regret.
I bring him back to life, with one breath.
When I cross the middle,
at dead center
peripheral emotion increases heart rate.
Faithful to the old custom
the smile sits on my lips.
The truth is ironic in the everyday way.
The muse did not love me as much as I loved her.
Teuta Sadiku.
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