For life and death of a Poet
Poets
In literal meaning
Are not responsive
To normative rules of dying
Moreover
Just like the Saints
They do not fit into a
Written conventions
Of the existence
Of the survival
At all costs
At the cost of their own greatness
They rather resemble
Orphaned fortresses
Which has to be taken
Meter by meter - as in the past
With the severe blood loss
Or permanently straining
Among the yellow fields
Mossy towers with no vaults
But with the ever-vigilant gaze
Poet as gaper
- Windblown
- Caressed by storms
Until he not falls
Never measures
Himself as the one
- And then all fading behind
For life and death of a Poet
There is no proper time
He lives in himself
Stirring up higher and higher
By the abandoned fortification
Of horror of consequences
To the moment in which
He is taken - far far away
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