How to kill a poet

Poets are always useless.

They are parasites, ragtag, they are all moon struck.
They don’t deserve to live in the world
Because all they want is to run it away.

Poets are good for nothing.
Their only talent is to disturb the peace.
To put the things that good intentioned men arrange with patience and devotion in disarray.

Poets scrounge through the orts deposited at the end of the inhabited lands
They burn the scraps to keep warm and build amulets from the ashes
They are pagans
Lunatics that don’t deserve to live
In the concentration camp that the braves call world.

Most often poets are nocturnal creatures, sleepwalkers
They feed themselves with resins, with the dust of the roads,
With flames and bleeding phantasms
They eat all sorts of poltergeists

They are hard to kill
But, for the common welfare
There are some means to annihilate them:

Do not amputate their arms or legs
The cutback of their members will make them fly!
When they cannot walk they grow wings

The pain amplifies their powers
Poets cannot be stoned to death
Because they know how to revert the stones towards the one who throws them
If trying to hang them, their dead shadows will start dancing with the ones of living men, driving them nuts,
The blood of the crucified poets falls on the ground drawing frightening shapes

They cannot be destroyed but by an archer that aims straight to their heart
The archer must be awesomely beautiful
So that the poet goes voluntarily to death

The more beautiful the killer is the happier the poet is to die
He knows he will die
Because the light from the sights of the archer could defeat the pain for a second
And pain is what keeps a poet alive

Poets don’t die starving, freezing, sick or old
They die when pierced in their hearts
By the bewitched arrow of the most beautiful archer
From the most beautiful town
Of the most beautiful
of the impossible worlds.


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