Poetry

He sits at the table and writes.

"With this poem you will not take power," he says.
"With these verses, you will not make revolution," he says.
"Nor with thousands of verses will you make revolution," he says.

And what's more, these verses won't make peons, teachers, or carpenters live better, eat better, or he himself eat, live better.
Not even for wooing a woman can they be used.

He won't make money with them.
He won't get into the movies for free with them.
They won't give him clothes for them.
He won't get tobaco or wine with them.

Nor parrots, nor scarves, nor boats, nor bulls, nor umbrellas will he get from them.
If it were left to them, the rain would get him wet.
He won't reach forgiveness nor grace because of them.

"With this poem you will not take power," he says.
"With these verses you will not make revolution," he says.
"Nor with thousands of verses will you make revolution," he says.

He sits at the table and writes.