To Rimbaud, Van Gogh and all the others.

When you will have lost everything,
the private ground on which you stood,
the sweet geometry you had learned,
the roots, the roads, the maps
leading home,
when the ways to seek God will be
obscured, when the muse will bring
only a false flavor of laurel,
when you will find no escape
in carmine wines or drugs blue,
and yet, will keep on breathing,
then maybe, all the shadows
will combine into light.
When all the music, the paintings,
the books will be of no use,
when so many people
will have entered your life
to teach you loneliness, when
the marble of statues,
empty of complaints,
will watch over you
lying on park benches at night,
when tears will be
proportioned to thirst,
then a wound will open
in a late ray of sunshine.
To heal this wound
that never closes
will become
your only ritual
your true creation.
You will go out solitary,
unanswered, breaking
against the world —
but your song will blow
the prisoner’s window,
and its clarity
convey
your anti-destiny.

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