Blood Of A "Fulb" Poem by Nicolae COANDE

Bismarck said: poets and prostitutes, you can have them for money
anytime.
Auden muttered - indisputable like death...
The Devil can mimic anything - it seems to me that's what a disciple of Guénon wrote.
And Silone: give me a single sentence, and I'll hang
the author.
"He's in the room, " I think someone said.
In the room, but not in life. Look how the ranks have thinned,
how the hair thins after thirty years of age.
At forty, if nothing happens, no one is to blame.
Sometimes you wait your whole life for a day to come.
The truth is hidden and probably will remain so forever -
it couldn't have been more fitting, and Alexis got it.
And she, she about whom I am forced to be silent,
has the intuition of everything that is rebellious in my life!
Oh, Søren - mystagogue child, oh, discreet life,
were you a friend of God after all?
You knew: is something of God exiled from God?
Like a shapeless cloud, neither white nor black nor red nor green,
of no color?
Without any sound, without any meaning?
Like the blood of a "fulb" - but do you know what a "fulb" is, by any chance?
A "fulb" is a dead poet through whose bones the wind sings (you sing)
but poets and prostitutes, you can have them for money anytime...
Even though I know - if desires and the whole world were to sink,
a golden poem will float...