Another philosophical encounter that someone’s having here, translated…
I remembered receiving a letter from my reader long ago, I’d forgotten the contents, just remembered, that there was a passage in English on the envelopes: I will scream aloud, for the sake of hearing the echoes.
not my art…
These words kept me pondering for long.
About the mountain that’s before the poet.
Shapeless, formless, can’t tell the distance, if it’s tall, or short, and only through that scream that came from deeply within the poet, can you hear its, existence. Using the echoes to know this.
Hearing the mountains, through the echoes.
From the echoes, guessing at the shape and size of the mountain, what it’d, looked like, the expressions it wore. The truth, of the mountains.
So, the mountain came from, the poet’s mind, and, the poet tried, to make it out, but can’t, because it’s, not for real, it’s, imagined, by the poet.
Extending from the passage from before, the poet was, only a living organism, floating along, surviving, inside the echoes.
a version of teh self, from online…
Each and every poem written by the poet, was a scream aloud, a force of life and death, showed the final strengths of man.
As for that mountain before the poet.
The mountain needed to be tall enough, wide enough too, to make the echoes big enough, and fuller. To hear it more clearly.
here’s, another…not my art…
The only problem here is: what if, this mountain, doesn’t really exist?
So, this, is the poet, making troubles for her/himself, the poet got fixated on the thoughts of echoes, and, needed a mountain for her/his thoughts to be heard, by oneself, and, what if, there was, NO mountain, then, wouldn’t that mean, that the thoughts never got heard, that it didn’t, exist at all???