POETS
Poets are phoney and cruel,
Creating words and images,
Transforming the common into the sublime,
Making us believe in the significance
Of void and meaningless things.
They turn the plain sea into a deep mystery,
A force that stirs our life
And gives us salty bliss.
Random words from a thesaurus
Make the sky into a magnificent eternity,
Which fills us with a sense of freedom.
Poets' solitude and gloominess,
Despair and the hazy feeling of joy
Are only false colours, crafty phrasing,
And skilful rhythms which speed up our hearts.
Yet, when we read of unspeakable things,
Imprisoned with the air in the lungs,
Of the dull gaze which conceals I love you,
Of the stopped hand movement
Wishing to touch a face and quench the desire,
Of the infinite sorrow in the eyes
Because two lovers have met too late,
Then we are moved,
Whether this all is a lie or the truth.
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