Poetry is useless, it serves only
to behead a king
or seduce a young woman.

Perhaps it serves also,
if water is death,
to part the water with a dream.
And if time grants its unique matter,
it serves possibly as a blade,
because a clean cut is better
when we open memory’s skin.
With broken glass
desire
leaves ragged wounds.

You are poetry,
a clean cut,
a part in the water
–if water is the reason for existence–,

the woman who submits to seduction
in order to behead a king.