Sunday, March 31, 2013

IT

IT

People have been telling me that
it is useless to write or translate poetry,
and that the rhymes, the rhythm, the meaning,
cannot be transferred into another language;
That poetry is an art long been dead;
That these days we shall dedicate ourselves
To plays and stories.
It is for this reason that I am giving you up today,
Dear old friend,
Dear heartwarming poetry who were there when everybody else was busy living.


I will give it
-poetry-
all that it has given me so far.

I will give it back the life that it lent me
I will give it back the wrecked moments it fixed
I will give it back the joy and sorrow it filled me with
I will return to it all I started gathering from it,
years ago.

But I will also give it one last chance,
I will let it say to me: Go!
And go will I.
Go will I into the green woods and the black nights,
Go will I into the blank canvas it spread along my footsteps.
I will let it be, one last time,
Before I shove it into the closet to which it belongs.

 

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