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Rudolf MARKU: Poets, the citizens of Hell

Poets gather in hell,
amid the burning sulfur,
they talk quietly,
as if they were at home.

Their language is a never-ending tunnel
with bass consonants and flute vowels.
The noise of Hell stifles their conversations.
Who said they would want to move the stars
toward mercy and consolation?

Poets are citizens of Hell.
Their pens are filled with sulfur,
with their blood,
with strangers’ dreams and ghost stories.

Because of sounds,
the rhythm and words,
doomed they are
to listen the secret conversations
of the heavenly realms.

Poets are citizens of Hell.
They walk on mountains deep,
against the gravity of love,
to reach the sinners,
those, whom by the language
have been abandoned.

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