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.