to a poet

to a poet


a black mysterious cloud
(all the weight of eternity within it)
and the beginning and the end
of a whole absurd story before that mass
of subtle darkness

fire could apparently be seen
giving mortal life to a hope
(with no justice included)

and then that tower again

they will work
with no aim whatsoever
building something
they cannot give a name to
something they have not chosen
to be their last act of arrogance
anyway

a perfectly winged angel
pale face
marbled gown
indifferent to life
lost in his supreme thoughts
stares at nothing
but his own immaculate soul
glad to be unhappy

bricks that tell a lot
through the colours they have
are the material
that built an empire
of fear and sacred desperation
though beauty comes
to rescue us
from the cruelty of the ideas
resting there

the absence of natural feelings
is what this atmosphere
is made of

it is obvious that we have lost our faith

silence is heard

and then the poet
like a prophet
haughty in spite of his ill-looking face
never certain of what he foretells
though trembling souls
is what we are going to be
(that he yearns for)

he will keep you
(endless days an nights loaded with anguish)
thinking about
a strange sort of honest lie
only because
to dream is to live
even if nothing becomes everything
or more precisely
all the other way round