We accept, as an indisputable and necessary premise, that
poetry exists.
We want to say: it exists as the horse exists,
the bricks, the prophylactic, the Holy Grail.
The poem, if you will, is the drop of the line,
the ground wire of poetry.
His existence is there. Indisputable too.
And if no one believes in the existence of a poet,
if someone considers it a fantastic entity
like a gnome, a unicorn or a fury.
It will suffice for him, to lose heart, to contemplate a
beautiful garden. Go out into that garden with a
magnifying glass in hand That. That one, yes. That. that colony
bustling with insects. They are the poets.
make homeland step on them