Since last year

I did not write poetry.

I won’t, no need.

Thank you, God.

Huge numbers are

here and there.

I divorced fake poetry

and immigrated away

to a quiet bay

that knows nothing

but the truth.

Kids in my village

understand my poems.

My poems are simple like me, like them.

They are my smiles and theirs,

my tears and theirs.

The poets in the village

made my poems ash,

ate me alive,

cut my body into million pieces. Dead,

they cut me,

ate me,

because I reject lies.

I threw their poems in the trash.

O heavens,

pour anger on these poets,

all poets except

true poets who are

few in this world,

but they are poets and

the only poets.

O poets,

you are nowhere.

You say you know, 

yes, you know that you do not know.

Even your poems are mad at you,

and your poems curse you!

You claim you are the poets

of majority,

Yet the majority rejects you,

rejects your poetry,

knows true poetry, and

cannot be fooled

by false colors.

The majority knows

the secret of colors.