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.
