Also the obscurity of poetry
Poetry is like a universe. Sometimes so close, and so many so far. But in the consciousness of the poetic word , precipitated, the knowledge inhabits. The subtlety of the voice in the depth of the gorge reaches, only sometimes, the necessary key to untangle the skein that sustains the song. But the brevity of its intention, in the flesh of incisive matter, allows us to embrace the edges of time, without the crackle in the flight of the pages of an excessive book. The verses repent when the hours do not finish nesting in the holocaust of the evening. The artist, the painter, who places his gaze immersed in the immense capital of a precious and incorruptible time, resents sensibility when he contemplates the light that expands on the margins, still virgins, of the poems that summon him. Maybe it's poetry like the landscape. Or as the interior landscape of an ephemeral world.
But Kavafis says: "[... It is a wound of a ruthless knife. / Bring your drugs, Art of Poetry- / that at least alleviate the pain for a while]", in Kavafis, "Chosen work". Theorem, Barcelona 1984, p. 123