the
blessed poem crouches
full
of compassion in front of
the
poet’s nebulous womb
is it
in this orbit
or
another where the inexpressible
tastes
like dew and manna on the tongue?
the
nullification of death
stupefies
the language-fighters and
the narcissists
the
diverse research gives
no
space
for
the imagination
the
poems can only
march
in
their
own protests
a
fraction of a syllable
will
purify my possessed head
there
is no time for excessive metaphors
be it
indigenous
or
alien
it
does not matter
we
all stand with hungry lungs
that
more and more
fall
away into a state of sigh
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