Everyone says
how good it would be if everyone took up poetry.

But no one thinks about the dirty jobs.

On the other hand, Rimbaud will not save the world.

But let's suppose that he does.

That poetry, the beauty, the gratitude of things
have the sky in their little body,
that is, the sea.

Let's suppose that suddenly Asia or Europe
wake up tomorrow morning
reading, doing, eating, sniffing poetry.

That tonight America or Oceania or Africa
stops in the middle of the street
and all the inhabitants
take out a book, approach a flower
smell it until the blood turns into mist.

But what would happen with the dirty jobs.

Why does no one think about the hitmen.

What will the detractors of the beautiful
of the good
of the healthy do?

What will the inquisitors do.
Where, poor things, will the liars be heard?
What will, for example, the bad lawyers,
the false witnesses, the deceivers of the people do.

Nobody ever thinks about the heartless.
The drinkers of inequities.
Drunk with narcissism.
Hungry for many zeros in
their bank account.

What will those who do not have a drop of
tenderness to give do.

Why does nobody ever think about the idiots.

Who will go on television with dragon tears of comfort.
Who, good heavens, will go out on the sidewalk with
hands dirty with stamps and papers.

Everyone says
how good it would be.

As if poetry could stick a
sharp metaphor in the
back of the human bastard.

Whoever opens a book of poems
is about to create
serious problems
with almost everyone.

And nobody thinks about the hitmen?
In dirty jobs?
In the law of the infamous?

The way things are going,
looking at a star and smiling
will be a declaration
of war.

That is, a declaration of beauty.