Where my verses are silent, the poor man shouts - Poetic Anthology

The silence,
eternal silence,
where there are no writings,
where nobody reads.

The man sings agony,
the bells of the mind resound,
laughs and cries out of shock,
-suffer inside-
because my verses have been silent,
and with your day, my night,
-trembling at last,-
twisting the nature of being,
thinking of subtlety,
or maybe frankness,
of a loser.

For he who writes makes him defeated,
and the one that does not, becomes the winner.

Words of feeling,
invoked in color,
unique to the one who looks at it,
glimpsed for the one who already saw it.

Where my verses are silent, the poor man shouts ...
without raising your voice.