Burning bush

I am thirsty; I am hungry. Even satiated, my stomach gnaws at me, and my lips call beyond the earthly foods we are said to have - luckily, I am not short of these. I am thirsty and hungry for the regions of my soul buffeted by a wind from Neptune, persistent, opaque like a gropingly crossed fog. I cannot content myself with the fire of days. I also need the ice of their nights, the storms of their mornings and the weariness of their twilights.

I need all these hours and spaces in my mind. I cannot indulge in the satisfaction of ordinary time, for I dream while walking.

I catch a glimpse of a burning bush and urgently want to touch the leaves and taste its fruits. But I know that these are just illusions. Reality is an autumn with crumbly leaves.

What to do then with this never-ending longing appetite? Yet it calms down when I dance with my thoughts, one step before the other, one, two, one, two, heels first and willing ankles. I make peace with my stomach when my legs move forward, when my eyes look, and my eardrums absorb the muses and inspirations.

I am not alone in getting worked up for passions, unfortunately unfit to live in tune with others and the solitude of their harmonies. Is it me who locks myself up to avoid listening?

Yet I listen a lot these days to the random suggestions of a music subscription, to the beauty invented by numerous contemporary composers. At the same time, I stopped taking singing lessons. I'm thinking of selling my piano. My ears love the look of my words. My fingers move rhythmically to what I hear everywhere. Do I move on or come back to my basics?

It would take just a lottery win to relieve me of the burden resulting from my wage. I have never dared to be entirely a poet. Perhaps I will carry this regret to my grave.

I am thirsty; I am hungry. I would like to better pray. Fabulous and red bush in front of me, whose god do you warm yourself with?