and if the server crashed
would I still be a poet?
and if the Internet crashed suddenly
in the whole wide world,
who’s going to ever hear of me?

I would like a law
to forbid poetry in public,
to have to go in specially designed places
with a pencil and a piece of paper
to write only for myself
as if my poem were
an engagement ring
a vow for love.

I’ve been hurting my soul
on a piece of paper
in a puddle of words
you call it clichee
a hole
or a whole lot of nothing

while poetry is
a crosswalk
between life and death

or a wild boar chased by bullets
in a pristine forest

My writing is not
a simple pastime
but a dedication for God
Who sometimes puts his palm
on your forehead
Woman

even if Life is a hospital
where people treat you
with drops of Indifference
while Death counts souls

if the Internet crashed
I would walk barefeet in the dust
to feel the cold body of my ancestors

or I would shave my head
so that nobody notices
how beautifully it snows

I would stop this talking
(a whole lot of nothing)
and I would kick you
where it hurts the most
to prove you
how much I love you

I was born on Google
everybody knows
and I endlessly seek
a place
to confess