"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea / By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown / Till human voices wake us, and we drown."
T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
[Vale come pietoso sollievo
il silenzio che ti parlerà?]
[vibrare di vertigine]
What matters is precisely this; the unspoken at the edge of the spoken.
The secret of poetry is silence, the unheard echoes of utterances that wash through us with their solitary innuendos.