There is no poetry anymore,
it immolated itself,
it was swallowed by the mouth of some god
and then regurgitated, like some castaway verse in the sea of disaster.
And the muses, poor orphans,
playing hysterical melodies,
with their extravagant violins of regret,
tearing out their own eyes in bloody delirium,
schizophrenic, desolated snakes.
No, there is no more poetry, no more poets,
nothingness and its abominable edges, open its jaws,
black teeth, chewing illusions,
then it claims its place, by emitting a silent echo: