The poet and the artist live on the back of paradoxes
The poet, is nourished with dew,
Flowers, lightning; with souls and clouds,
The heavy objects and the light ones,
The long and the short ones too,
Endurable and infinite.
The poet is nourished by noises
Of strikes, of guns and of the little one's power,
Of hands that say hello to each other,
Of glances and of uncertain birds.
The poet dwells on the day's corners,
Or on the night's shores,
Or on the margins of a dictum,
Of a love declaration, or a declaration of war
In a winged car or in the children's toys.
The poet cannot be poisoned
Because he is an antidote and the poison.
The poet can be found making love to the autumn leaves,
To the dew
to the rainbow
The poet lives in the trees sway,
Or riding the waves,
Or on the moon's garments,
On plowed roads
On the libraries ire
Or on the rational and irrational numbers.
The poet is Monday, or Tuesday
He is each day when the people kiss each other.
The poet is yes and no,
He is being and not-being.
The poet is tears, is the sorrow and the handkerchief.
The poet cannot die
Because he has lived all deaths
And has deadened all lives.
The poet lives in the crystal's mirroring
And in the lightning that darns the sky.
The poet is the centre of nowhere but
The poet makes with his poetry that which the function
Obtains its derivative,
That the x delta never reaches zero.
The poet and his poetry were present when
Bertrand Russell failed in axiomatizing Mathematics.