When the poet goes to pray

If I told you I was born a poet

You would stone me

A biblical scenario, a symbolic death

Worthy of a poet.

Any mistress/master of words

Would assume this necessary death.

My first memory: a tall mountain

Grey, with snow on its peak and a blue aquatic sky

A special calm, a warm sun and my mother holding me

Like a bee carrying its larvae in the hive

Three unknown people around me and a sleepy state, lethargic.

If I told you I was born a poet

You would probably pierce between my ribs with a rusty stake

And from the wound, blood would spurt

A blood smelling like spring and warm air

You would crown me with your subjective opinions and egos

A crown leaving scars visible in the mirror

If I told you I was born a poet

You would chair me on the traitor’s throne

Where only the truthful ever sat

You’d extract my memories with morality plies

Telling me that my mountain, my mother, the snow

They are all my imagination

A fantasy, a product of cognitive thinking

Then and only then I will turn around saying

I forgive you, for you don’t know what you’re doing