If the poet's ego did not drown out the words, we could be the echo of hidden truths. We could whisper in the ear of the one who hears verses of love, cries of rebellion, sore whispers, impulses of life--- the one next to us and ignore. If the poet's ego did not give for perfecting the unfinished, we could fill an isolated and divergent universe with words. We would give voice to the one who silences because he is alone, we would give value to the coward for the daily war of being in an indefinite context. If the poet's ego did not gag us, we would be a fragment of a world that just needs us to be a voice and a name of the environment. We would be part of a walking whole and not be witnesses to our empty defeats. A world that does not think claims us, but we continue to worship our shadow.