Poetry is nothing, and at the same time, it is everything: that is its reality. It is the door of an unknown space that is nothing on its own, but is due to the look of a person, dispossessed of himself, who dares to humbly trespass the threshold leaving all baggage to a side, like the pilgrims when they reach the goal of their travel, which may be the origin of the eternal return. I have come to believe for some time that poetry is a random event, a random finding of two or three words that united capriciously build a metaphor capable of shining light over a hidden thought. Along the years I have changed my mind, maybe due to the insistence of that apparent find. Thus, I presume that that which was randomly found is a kind of constant that hides and suddenly appears, sort of an infinite night without starts, awaiting for whoever comes to shine light over it with his own words. I do not see it as destiny, as I do not believe in prophecies, nor in crafts or mysteries.
Convinced that it is a verbal game, I nevertheless give to this verb an originating condition, a driving role in the labyrinth, a filament of memory that allows us to distinguish reality beyond its dress and episodic motivations. It is a taste, a look, but also silence and a way to grab the reality from hidden angles. The poet is then a star seeker, looking for those spots in the darkness of the night, those dissimulated signs in the forest that point the way of the real experience.