for a poem to be real
he is lecturing me
like i am one of his students in class
it must have
political color
like a student leader put to prison
the one with
balls
fighting against an oppressive system
raging against the tide
it must be a questioning poem
one that lives in
quarter storms
it must have the love story of a rebel
war torn places
secret codes
and not subservient
love is not an issue in poetry
or identity crisis
these are all nothing but foolishness
existentialism? what for?
intellectual masturbation that gives you
nothing
but selfish ejaculation
i have respect for him
he is alive and fighting and kicking and revolting
soon he will be caught
and killed and his families
massacred
perhaps
God forbids
To me however,
Life is too short for all these
and so
here i am writing anything that comes to my mind
topics range
whatever comes along
ants, or reptiles or sun or
urination
or filial pity or
envy,
or premature deaths
or mourning widows
lost kids and
even about the lost cents
that the houseboy keeps on looking
This is life.
A phenomenon, it does not matter
if nothing is important.
I see, and so i write,
There are feelings, nearest to my heart
and i hear all the sounds
I echo,
This is the resounding.
Life ends, sometimes, others do not like it.
I welcome everything.
My arms are always open, like a port at sea
Like a cave less the vines.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem