the night was shattered by a cry,
a loud cry from the house of poetry.
the whole block heard and they ran,
they looked for but have found none.
they saw a body instead, soaked in blood.
he has gunshot wounds and stab wounds too.
and on his right hand is his pen that he uses,
while there are papers on his left side.
he is the poet, by heart and by deed.
poetry was his life and outlet for everything.
words that he cannot express where written down,
all of his emotions he poured onto the papers.
but the police found no evidence of foul play,
all that they found is the body of the poet.
he has nobody, no one in his life for questioning,
what they have now is a puzzle of death.
the poet lies on the ground,
his hands holding tight a small paper with writings of his last work.
the mysterious death of the poet confuses nobody.
by the way, “who ever cared for a senseless poet like me?”
written: November 20, 2003 Gabs Narazo © 2003 [soulprojekt publikation]