The poets should not be ever touched
by the shivering eyelid of those who read them
Ask them what they think
Watch them
they will stop for a while from working
Letting go the pencil
in between lines
And closing their eyes
without responding.

The poets should not be ever heard
their fingers smell like baked paper
and above, words cross
in whisper.


Sometimes it happens
That a poet passes by
And we know this
By the changes which occur in the atmosphere
in the sunset’s creases of red
or in the indistinct rustle
coming from the aspen tree.

The poets should not ever have a name
their faces are covered by leaves ,
flowers
and snow flakes,
so
they wouldn’t be ever
touched
heard
questioned.