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

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.

Listen to this poem:

Comments about Alfredo N. S., Poet, Dead. by RIC S. BASTASA

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Wednesday, April 11, 2012

[Report Error]