I don't recognize it anymore,
I can't decipher it from the words,
From the letters black as lice.
Its wings are broken,
its body was torn and frayed,
Its face is stretched like a puddle on the asphalt.
It's broken into pieces,
Tangled and knotted,
And ugly.
And it stinks, indeed, it reeks...
Of printer's ink
And yellowed paper,
Moldy
And damp.
It's not mine anymore,
I don't recognize it,
It's a stranger to me,
It's mute.
And it can only cough,
And whimper,
And rattle,
And wheeze,
And howl,
And scream,
That it wants to be read,
That it wants to be seen,
Wants to be heard,
Wants to be known,
Felt, grieved, lived, loved.
Whispered, shouted, but most of all:
Sung,
And reread and recited...
And I think
That it might have remained
A beautiful
Unwritten poem.
The poem reflects on loss and disconnection with creation. The author no longer recognizes the poem, describing it as broken, lifeless, and foreign. It’s portrayed as something that once held potential but is now flawed and decaying, longing desperately to be noticed, understood, and loved.
The final lines express regret, suggesting that it might have been more beautiful if it had never been written, leaving readers with a bittersweet reflection on creativity and the unattainable perfection of unfulfilled ideas.
