The Art of Poetry

I write, as the spider spins, Helping the world define And perhaps in the act of writing, I breathe.

The words are seeds, Growing and becoming, Sprouting ideas, Surrounding me with their Delayed truths.

The art of poetry, like nature, Is a riddle wrapped in A question meant to go unanswered.

Each poem a leaf in the wind, Every pen scratch a river, Sows a turbulent landscape.

• Jorge Luis Borges