I know nothing about you

I have seen him barefoot with a stick in his hands,
drawing enigmas on the ground
as the sand listens to his unreachable mind
every single day.
He speaks the language of the half-eaten winged angels.
I can't understand his forgotten words, the imprisoned artist in him.
The poet in me wanders whenever he sits in the park,
showing me a new definition of existence as if
I somehow could be different from him
when I protect my dreams from my mouth and imagination.
But in the corners of my doubts,
poems die of agony and madness.
I know nothing about him
just what the sands allowed me to see
and what I have seen is not enough
to comprehend a human being
under the stillness of the sun.