We don’t listen to you, poet

See, poet? It seems to have been quiet around you. Not to hear from you, but because we prefer to ignore you. Your words may be right, but they are also too vague, they do not bring anything to the vision of their eyes. You wear a horse’s head and all they see is a mask or something funny. But you, the poet, have in your head the feeling of having a mane, hitting the ground with your four hooves and running, the wind feeding your nostrils.

Sometimes we agree to listen to you, to look at you. To do this, you usually have to follow the beaten track, give yourself known airs, do in the classic of speech, the sobriety of the gesture. But, of course, you are not given much time. You seem to exist only to soften morals when they are already drunk, to burst the abscess when it is so purulent that the skin detaches itself. The smell is strong, so are you allowed to do theatre with the tragedy that overwhelms the sick?

Don’t kid yourself, poet. These nauseous people are often right more than you think. You are the madman here, the experimental thought. You can’t put butter on your bread. You can’t feed the soul, because it is anorexic. It swallows everything it can and then goes to make itself puke. It thinks it is so beautiful, proud and violent.

But go, poet, go on your way, stay what you are. You’re part of the experiment, you weren’t invented for nothing, it seems.

You still feel so alone. You have these antennas that everyone would like to have. Maybe it’s because your truth can’t be heard. I suspect it’s not a truth, it’s just a crazy, equestrian, burlesque race. What is it for? I wonder.

I guess it is quantum, woven into one of those dimensions that neither space nor time can grasp. You possess your happiness, my dear poet, and it will die with you. Anyway, our life dies with us. Perhaps, I mean, when we die, we too receive a horse’s head for eternity.

Maybe.

I like that expression. It looks like a penknife capable of scratching the most stubborn of surfaces.