Epistle to future poets
Poems are long avenues
where our burning rage marches.
Everywhere the crying,
everywhere a black wall besieged.
Could our poetry be a solitary column of dew?
It has to be perpetual thunder
as long as children stare
at a loaf of bread with envy.
There are higher things to mourn than lost lovers:
the sound of a society finally awakening
is more beautiful than the dew,
the glittering metal of its anger
more beautiful than sea foam.
A free man is purer than a diamond.