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My Teacher

Superannuated children

At the tether of insensitivity,

These are your work—

Born of selfishness,

Each generation slips away

Further and further.

From every sideways glance

Aimed at revolt

Fleas give birth to dragons

And they do it from the underside

Of workbenches only partially covered with tablecloths.

The month of September in their eyes

Piles their up their hatreds day in and day out,

An anteroom for opportunists

A shelter annihilating love

And—

A prop

For confidence,

Whose opposite face falls into a ravine.

My teacher,

Before the wellspring

of your values dries up . . .

Draw near, and you'll see the capillary vessels

Of youth.

Draw near,

Before the last vestiges of your sensibilities

Are snuffed out, scattered by the winds of Time.

Oh, I know,

No matter what you plea,

Your inner Tribunal doesn't leave you free

So long as tomorrow drops suffering into your lap.

Events fall out on your right,

Secrets shake you up on your left

The source of worrying

Is in every tomorrow

Looming inside you . . .

Your accomplishments, my dear teacher,

Only see you

They can't see themselves!


 

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