
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]