The Poet's Opium
No matter the data, the assertion, the axiom, and the certainty, there will always be someone to oppose it, like the last martyr of dissent, the enlightened one, the world’s problem solver. Even if all people were happy and honest, even if we lived in a utopian world of fulfilled dreams, there would be some vague scoundrel, a sad unfulfilled wretch, a dissatisfied rascal who would put everything to the test, who would question the good in perfect harmony.
So many long embraces, fraternal warmth and wide smiles, already without shine from overuse.
The contrarian poet only knows how to say he doesn’t trust the wind that calms, the sea that stirs, the love that breaks and happy people, nor those who pretend to be happy, for they seem dangerous to him.
Some poets flee from the joy of the world.
Others see it and discover it every day.
It’s a matter of choice, of poetry.
Of… of joy.
The poet’s opium is often lyricism.
