Poetry like a tree speaking

When we write poetry, we aim to express the perfection of our humanity, condensed into language and imagination. When we read it, we seek to experience a pleasure akin to the self dissolving in the sea of ¿¿nirvana. Indeed, we read it to see the world within us dreaming of what we dream of, dancing to it as if in prayer, a prayer of endless love. The verb "to see" here severs the umbilical cord that connects it to the lexicon and attaches itself to another umbilical cord extending from the navel of vision, which draws forth the visions of all seers, passing from the first seer, Gilgamesh, to the last seer in the present moment. Here, the worlds of dreams and the unknown become transparent, revealing a part of their essence in the poetic text and bestowing upon it shadows that surpass what criticism considers the shadows of meaning.
It is poetry that truly grants us this vision-a vision of the world within us, dreaming our dream. And our dream is none other than a woman, passionate and breathtakingly beautiful, from whom nature borrows its allure and with whom it merges. Thus, the world becomes a dream dreamt by every woman, just as it is dreamt by every poet whose eyes have been consumed by vision.
The creative self is a letter, and a letter is a nation among nations, one that does not die. For words are like clay, sticky in dictionaries, and the poet takes from this sticky clay what resonates with his inner time and breathes life into it, so that it becomes a nation among nations, one that does not die, with its own context, distinct from the context of dictionaries and other forms of discourse.