at first i told him,
poetry is for those who suffer,
and those who suffer much and tell
are the best ever,
they write and write so well about grief
about being discarded,
junked, spoiled, and all went well
until we chat, and i tell him so many jokes
words that become funny when well defined,
i tell him, i am a lecturer, and i
make them survive three hours because
of stories, scorpions and frogs,
idiots and morons, politics and clowns,
and he begins to
reinvent poetry, it is not just suffering
it is also life, the one that knows how to kick out
grief, and ball out greed and weed out dirt
and clean lawns and cut grasses and
let flowers bloom knowing that
the following day they die.
it is death
which sometimes make us all
pause.
the silence where we
attribute God
as passing
in the form of a wind
after everything,
the grave, and
about those who bring flowers,
who say prayers,
and the poetry
stops.
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