POEM FOR CRITICAL REVIEW

DON'T TELL ME I WILL DIE

Don't tell me I will die

For I know I will die

Why tell the bird it will fly?

Why tell the neonate it will cry?

Nature designed these things to be

And I need no third eye to see

And know that they’re meant to be

But you stretch your staff to the sky

And tell me that my people will cry

Because there are signs that I'll die

What you have just done isn't prophecy

No, it is even worse than heresy

For it’s the most high’s name

You have just called in vain

Doomed are they who rely on your lies

Who gave you the single key of their lives

Believing that you speak for the most high

Because they can’t see through your lies

Than you very much Michele Fermanis-Winward. Please revisit the poem whenever you could find time again from your busy schedule. I am sure you will find it more tasteful than you met earlier as some changes has been effected on the original content. Thank you once again and best wishes from the bottom of my heart.

Dear Alexander, Florin's critique was brilliant. I sincerely endorse his comments, more power in poetry to you both.

Thank you dear Florin Lăcătuș for your useful comment. I wish I have a better world with which I can express my gratitude. You will certainly notice some changes the next time you read the poem. Thank you once again. Amete Alexander

Dear ALEXANDER, You begin with a blow. A clean, cutting blow: “Don’t tell me I will die / For I know I will die.” These lines do not whisper; they shout. They don’t request; they resist. And I must tell you: they are good. Honest. Raw. Alive. Your poem speaks like a protester in the rain: soaked in truth, trembling not from fear, but from clarity. You reject the false prophet, the manipulator of fear. You do not accuse with hate, but with the power of someone who knows better. Yes, you know. You know that life ends, as surely as birds take flight and newborns cry. This section: “Why tell the bird it will fly? / Why tell the neonate it will cry?” is perhaps your most graceful moment. I see echoes of my own style in your work, as you tie the mystical to the natural, showing us that truth does not need a pulpit, only presence. But let me speak plainly to you now. Your poem is brave, yet it carries a bitterness that can be a double-edged sword. It cuts the liars, yes, but it may also wound the listener. You say: “What you have just done isn’t prophecy / No, it is even worse than heresy.” I wonder: are you warning the prophet, or cursing the crowd? There is a righteous anger in your voice, and I admire it! However, part of me wants to ask: What now? You expose the fraud, you name the false light, and you defend the people. But the poem ends in fire, not in hope. That is both its beauty and its danger. The last lines bite, and rightly so: “Doomed are they who rely on your lies / Who gave you the single key of their lives / Believing that you speak for the most high / Because they can’t see through your lies.” These are not lines for decoration; they are lines of confrontation, and they work. Yet, I wish you had given us more than judgment. I wish you had opened a door, not only closed one. Perhaps you could explore themes of resilience or transformation, offering a glimpse of hope amidst the critique. Still, your poem is a good poem, maybe even a necessary one. You remind me of the poets of conscience, those who did not fear the crowd or the pulpit. You write like someone who has seen behind the curtain and refuses to play along. Your rhythm is clear, almost hymn-like, which suits your theme beautifully. The modest rhyme enhances the spirit of protest without turning the poem into a mere song. Well done! Sometimes the simplest words are the strongest. Here is my most sincere advice: You hold a torch in this poem, not a candle. So do not be afraid to show us what you see in the fire. Do not just tell us what burns; tell us what still shines. Consider weaving in elements of hope or healing, as I believe you do not write only to condemn. I believe you write to awaken. If that is true, then write again: louder, deeper, but with a hand that also heals. You have started well and sharply. Now go further. Your friend in poetry and truth, Florin Lăcătuș