My Dream

I had a dream I was a poet.

And in my dream, I would recite what nature whispered in my ear.

“This is your play ground,” it would say, over and over again.

I had a dream where I flew across the world.

And I saw life happening, happening right from above.

I saw mountains growing and falling.

I saw trees as big as they were meant to be.

I saw people behaving in different ways;

Some were breaking hearts, stealing people’s tears and introducing them to pain.

Others were putting the broken pieces back in their place.

Relieving them from their ache with kindness,

Satisfying their thirst for happiness and giving them hope again.

I woke up from my dream, with tears of knowledge.

And I knew.

I knew that we are not the poets.

We are the poetry.

A poet vanishes in time, but the poetry remains.

And life happens, over, over and over again!

The poetry’s playground is and will always be

The infinity of times.

 

By Nerea Duran

Dreamer

Dreamer.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Show me who will be the one who opens that door;

The door out of this place.

Who will save me from the monotony of my every day?”

“You poor dreamer violin,

thinking one day you’ll fulfill your dreams.

Look at you!

You are a dusted piece of wood.

Who will be interested in you?”

“That’s not what I see,” said the violin.

“And one day you’ll see it too.

When my destiny walks through that door,

He will look at me and I will look at him,

And together we’ll play beautiful symphonies.

People will smile at the sound of my strings,

And with their hearts they will hear the music that comes within me.

My wood will no longer be dusted.

It will shine from all the flashes that fame brings;

from all the crystals around me.

Then people will see what I see.

Not a dusted piece of wood,

But my dreams come true.”


By Nerea Duran

Don’t be deceive by appearance

Don’t be deceive by appearance

 

Whether the bees have thoughts we cannot say.

Nature’s little helpers;

that’s what they are.

Their size does not do justice to their important task.

Whether the bees have thoughts we cannot say.

But if they did, it would go something like this:

“Get out of my way!” they would yell all day.

“You selfish beings! All you do is take;

take and never give back,

to the land that provides everything you got.

And you are afraid of us?

Of a little sting?

Get out of our way! And let us do our job.

We, as little as we are, were chosen to maintain life.

Get out of our way! And let us die in peace.

And when you wake up in the spring and look at the beauty that exists,

don’t only see the beauty of the colored flowers.

Take a closer look at the rose’s prickles.

And when you see them, think of us.

For that’s a reminder that we have again saved the world.


By Nerea Duran