The poet's face lies in an eternal sleep of sorrow.
The flute still plays,
but venomous men are everywhere;
thousands of flowers lie still from the sting.
When did we ever become human?
From Ukraine to Palestine,
from the Euphrates to the Nile-
a torrent of blood, a merciless refrain.
There are no poets around-
only songs of illusory dreams.
Every word is a failed arrow,
a head forever bowed, forever pale;
the echo of a predator in the mirror!
O poet of infinite sorrow,
come upon this stainless day.
Come as the flame of cataclysm, as a lethal weapon,
and ceaselessly destroy-every cruel face.
