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I confess, my brothers, I have sinned,
in the flesh and the spirit,
in the silence and the word.
I confess I have sinned, my brothers,
when I spoke about poetry and I dared
to write verses starched
by rimes and last minute resentments.
When I impounded the beauty
of celebrated voices and made up this parody
of cheap and well-thumbed poetry.
When I wanted to bring it down
to these fingers, stunted by sounds
and shapes that refuse to raise
from the lack of originality quagmire.

I confess, my brothers, for I still here I am,
unbearably stubborn in my resolution
for speaking, writing and disrespecting
the powerful and immemorial word
of the true poets.
I confess, thousand times I confess,
before the last word
worthy of being pronounced is written
and everything is reduced to “the right
of writing” and “the right
of expression”, and the ill-gotten freedom
for those of us who read aloud in feasts,
tweet two lines by second,
leave repulsive notes in pissoirs,
fill entries in a mile by minute,
and dare to call
all that “poetry”.

I confess, my brothers, I confess.
Before the ghost of Virgil
and Orpheus straighten up upon my soul
at abyssal edge of Lethe,
where not a single memory will be anymore enough
to remember even the slightest
trace of this dull shadow
of creation.
And beg the consent of a final
plea saying: “Forgive them
for they know not what they write”.