she will mistake
art as a form of disorder
it is not unlikely
since fails
in the Rorschach test
where butterflies leave
from the frame of a page
and goes somewhere else
and there will be more
stories of its adventures
no longer
warranted by the inkblots
of her mind
she will degrade you
into a candidate for an
electric cure
some capsules for medications
so recommendations
to another doctor
you are not a poet
but a madman eating words
drinking ink
barking like a dog
at the wrong tree
of this world
you keep you wisdom
shut your mouth
leave the place
and grow your flowers
somewhere else.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem