a tree is waiting for the poet . a river is waiting for the poet . they are waiting --- only because the poet is waiting for them . i mean , they are not going to wait for the poet . the poet is waiting for his words .
the poem is not waiting for those . a tree is not waiting , a river is not waiting . beauty does not wait for an eye , for adjectives . it does not wait for the helplessness of the poet . when a poet comes to beauty , he does not come with that beauty . the poet comes to be himself .
he is his looking glass . he comes through himself .
so , if there is any kind of description , the description can not go beyond the poet . the poet gives an account of his thirst , his ways . the words are nothing . they are nothing but ... what ?
everything is poetry , but the words can not catch the feathers . the bird can be anywhere .
where not ?