When poets have to die
Something is amiss
Whether Mayakovski
Bulgakov Ovid
Marlowe Lorca
Jara or Neruda
When poets die
The cause becomes
Less pure
The murderers
Less brave
And the words
That now will never be born
Cry out from the grave
How just must be the reason
To smash the sacred lyre
How convinced must be the season
To blanket the world in silence
Murdered poets tend to scream
Better
Tend to bloom inside the young
With long fiery stalks of revenge
It’s a fool who kills poets
For from their corpse
Guns and curses will spring
And not the forgiving verses of love
The poet if he is truly such
Is the voice of the God (whoever He or She may be)
Strangle it Shoot it Bomb it Split it
The poet will return
In clouds of angry divinity
The poet is the people’s tongue
Cut it out
And a nation will punch
Its mute fist into the future
In revolt against the stolen sounds
Of a tortured soul
Don’t kill poets
If you want to win
Don’t cheat and kill the best lovers
Of the world
No matter who else you kill
Apollo will never forgive you
And whatever war you wage
Will have been in vain
