What a horrible experience to suffer again and again.
Sitting down to write the most beautiful poem in the world, feeling it inside of you, living it, struggling to contain the trembling beauty that overflows and transforms your entire being, elevating it, then… sitting there with just this bit of ice between your fingers or this ash!
Everything else has been consumed within. Outside, there is only the flames’ reflection. For the poet is an oven in which to burn up reality.
From all the raw emotion that one receives, sometimes a tiny diamond emerges with an incomparable clarity and brightness. An entire life reduced to a few images and phrases.