when poetry will die
the apocalypse of the soul will erupt in each of us
my being made of lyrics
will get lost in contemporary illiteracy,
our daily food will be missing from the shelves in the libraries
and virtual pages will replace the smile of the sweet girl from my favorite bookstore,
I will no longer cuddle the book covers made with good taste
and I will no longer breathe stories that hide behind them,
thinking will become limited by a collective sentence
which will swallow me
and devour my last remaining metaphor,
then amnesia will make a nest in me
and I'll beg it never to leave me!