drops & departs

I resemble all the poets of this world
except I’m not...alas I’m not...a poet.

I write so I have something to show to a son
I write from fear
I write so I can show to a daughter dear.

and later on
when the lamp stalls
and the place grows wan
and the heart small

and alas, how I pretend that I know.
and I know nothing at all!

I wish to write the poem in which, at the end,
somebody’s knife would descend
I dream of writing poems that spill
somebody who comes out to kill.

In a world in which it’s tough for me to resist
to stay what I was: intertextualist
hard, as it is, to be a genius
at the begining of the millenius

and later on
when the lamp grows small
and the body sprightly
and the mind more lively

I write just a poem from which there drops,
savagely, but sweetly, a broad,
I write just a poem from which she
steps lightly but surely towards me.

then I write just one verse. From which I depart,
poorer and uglier, with a heavy heart.