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Pawel Kuczynski. “Soap Bubbles”.

My friends, behind the pixels
there are so many faces searching for a paradise,
asking the name of irrecoverable things, lost,
and the time of a destiny.
We should be thankful for the feast of a sign
given for the revelry of the networks,
the cocktail of digital laughs and hate served on input trays,
the flowers born at cybernetic outdoors,
a creation stem of a multiparous hydra
with her thousands eyes reduplicating a world
of endless possibilities.
But the frail glass of the reality
get wider and is cracked in a way directly proportional,
and there is not emptiness that can hold it.
Do you feel it?
Very little can help the words.
Write them. Post them. Read them. Make a ball with them and swallow them.
The spilled ink is not indelible anymore,
neither can be deleted nor leaves its invisible stamp
as a voiceless witness of secret parchment.
Nothing said here is written in stone,
paper or scissors.
Would be enough a brief blast, a measly magnetic pulse, erratic
as a blind drunk guy who doesn’t know what is saying or touching,
and everything would go back to zero.
The names. The shapes. The last tweet.
We always knew, my friends, always.
That’s why we opened fire at point-blank range,
speaking up for every human and divine thing,
aiming for the head of the free will
and we made it throwing up even the last cent.
Because who can judge us, after all,
by wanting to say the last word, our word,
and to share out our most precious dreams
through the virtual tangle before being forgotten forever.

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