Narcissus, I no longer haunt the canyons
and the crypts. I thrive and multiply;
uncounted daughters are my new companions.
We are the voicemail's ponderous reply
to the computers making random calls.
We are the Muzak in the empty malls,
the laughtrack on the reruns late at night,
the distant siren's chilling lullaby,
the steady chirp of things that simplify
their scheduled lives. You know I could recite
more, but you never cared for my recitals.
I do not miss you, do not need you here—
I can repeat the words of your disciples
telling lovers what they need to hear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Tremendous comment on the automatisms that our electronic and computerised age induces. Given mythological weight by the impotence of Echo's voice.