I have reached a ceiling
In terms of poetry I already dissolved the pill in water.
At most it could, by carom physics, by chance, just because,
hit the bochín of beauty a humble offering
no more pompous than an taco or a piece of fainá,
I believe that there is some greatness in accepting one's own limitations.
I who dreamed of being a poet now have empty hands
I who dreamed of being a poet now I do nothing but repeat myself
I do nothing but repeat myself
I have reached a ceiling, I keep repeating myself,
I see around me people of pure action and I yawn
I do nothing but repeat myself and yawn,
if they have already said their thing and they said it in an in-super-able way
the baudelaire, the mistral, the tuñón, and a thousand etcetera...
What remains for the aspiring poet already unleashed in the 21st century?
For what love poems, having already had sabines and storni?
Having already had Santoro and Dalton and Mayakovsky, what to say about bread.
I have reached a ceiling.
We only have to build a time machine
and come back and murder them in their cribs before they learn
to read and write.
then yes, then we would have all the poetry ahead of us.
and he who with a trembling hand would not be taken for laughter or a fraud
and passionately wrote about a sad autumn desk:
I sing to myself
I can write the saddest verses
I have reached a ceiling
I do nothing but repeat myself.