Whispering winds in a rustling silence,
The Capri poet scouts the moon-drenched sands.
With ink made of hidden echoes,
He pens verses to the unseen stars.
"Some say the most profound truths are told when no one is listening," the poet remarked, suasively addressing a flock of imaginary goats, "but they don't pay me for what I can't see."
His canvas? The air itself. His medium? The unsaid, the unwritten, and the unhighlighted. Yet somehow, amidst the void, a review read, "Best work yet... truly beyond the visible spectrum."