Poetry in the waiting room There are images in me, that are so cryptic, I can only sense vaguely their weight and story, for a few seconds perhaps, before they are lost again into the stream of tens of thousands. There are these drops that roll along a rope of hemp, from immeasurable heights refreshing me, cooling me, comforting me, they mean something benign, and yet I cannot grasp them. There are these broken lights dancing on puddles at night, in a forsaken industrial street, asking me questions, wooing me, they announce something wild, and yet I cannot understand them. There are these ferns just above the ground vigorous green, whispering a secret, a few lines of incredible importance, from the depths of bogs, they tell something poignant. but I can't really hear them yet. Something inside me, still prevents me from accessing their deepest layers. but I feel how the images want to decode themselves, speak louder and louder, penetrate into the present, like icons. - Be patient, soon you'll get a voice.