How would you expect the bird to still come and rest his gentle feet with all the noise the Man keeps making ?
It pulses and blurs minds until the end of the night,
Fat sounds spread everywhere
Noise coats the shrine of his heart with chaos.
It is then healthy for the bird to move its nestling away.
May the poet, when fatigue has dried up all compassion, move his tent always further in the countryside.
If the wandering poet is sometimes sad it’s because he still doesn’t know it.
The one who resides in the heart of Being, no longer cares about books and religions,
He no longer surrounds himself with scholarly discourses on traditions and no longer seeks to interweave theories and principles
Books, religions, speeches, wisdom and traditions, theories and principles,
are the boat that we leave when one foot sets on the bank.
Notes & Silence 
🐦💙
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❤
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One point regarding the English – birds do not have « paws ». « Feet » is appropriate.
That poetry (written or unwritten, expressed or the movement of the spirit withing) is created in silence and solitude, I entirely agree.
« We are the music makers » – Arthur o’Shaughnessy ( https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54933/ode- )
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Thanks Simon for your comment.
I’ll correct right away.
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Food for thought 🤔
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