Alfredo N. S., Poet, Dead. Poem by RIC BASTASA

he was the first man that showed me how rain can be made inside an audio-visual room
without the use of anything,
nothing about colors, taste, brush, medium,
there are no clouds, chunks of cirrus,
of nine grams of nimbus,

he simply sat on a long chair
his legs not reaching the floor
his fat belly round like a suspended moon
his lips thin like a grain of rice

light was focused on his mouth which then
started to say the words,

and then it rained from the ceiling
we saw it, we were amazed

i felt so cold and i told myself i wanna be like him someday.

the news came to the university that he died
early dawn,
at such a young age, when his wife was still two months pregnant
with their first child,

such a brief, beautiful life,
which i can never have, but i promised myself i wanna be like him
someday

i will make rain from the ceiling of a dark house
where everyone can feel the strange cold,
that they will believe in
the power of poems

that poets in some aspects even if useless can be
powerful items too of
this intricate system of intertwines.