London, 2014
The clock ticks
“What makes a poem a poem?”
I asked myself as I brushed my teeth
I am so overwhelmed
My eyes weight heavy
There is nothing I would rather do now
than go to sleep

But I am here
The clock ticks
As I drown in questions
I can’t answer

Poetry to me now 
is silence
Not rhythm 
Not sounds
Not even words

The clock ticks
And I awake up
Suddenly silence weights heavier
than my yesterday’s eyes
Now there is nothing in silence
But loneliness

The clock ticks
And just like that
Poetry is gone
It faded away as the sun
decided it was time to shine

But who would have guessed?
The clock ticks
And poetry 
finds itself in other forms

I wonder 
if as the clock ticks
there are moments
I become poetry too.

[Luísa Tibana, Coimbra, Winter 2021]


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