Every word dictated is the voice of a dead man.
Perished those who didn’t see themselves;
Who in the voice, not in himself, has lived absorbed.
If being a man is little, and big only
To give voice to the value of our feathers
And what’s in our dreams stays in us
From the universe created for us;
If it’s greater to be a God, just sayin
With life what the Man with his voice:
Greater is still to be like Destiny
Who has the silence for your anthem
And whose face never showed up.
- IX. 1918.
*The poem discovered in 2016 and it was unpublished.
Reblogged this on Manolis.