they write the most complicated
arrangement of words
and give them their own tones
and colors and smell
and to a certain extent
of sophistication you do not
understand anything
with all the symbolism
and metaphorizing
suns talking and moons sneering
and cats yawning and seaweeds
dancing and spirits blitzing
and cornucopia feasting
and ambrosia sleeping
and cupid and psyche
dating and lamps lighting
and darkness enclosing
and you complain
that you do not understand a thing
and you say you hate poetry
and this poet asks you: do you understand?
and you honestly say, with a matching shaking of your head
and stamping of your feet: what are you telling me? I do not understand
what your poem is saying.
and he laughs, 'anything that you do not understand is poetry'
and so from that time on, you pretend to understand poetry
simply because, in truth, you do not like it
and on such pretense, you successfully murdered
everything that he wrote.
poems are dead, now they are burying them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem