In this poem, I think about poetry as a terrible waste of time. Let’s say it out loud: poetry can be a terrible waste of time, a vain undertaking with for only exit the death of the poet himself. Lessons here are lessons from the Devil himself if you dare believe so. Or, they are lessons that are inspired from the lives of many a dead poet.

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The Devil summoned an assembly of worthy men — none born of men

Those of higher dawn of higher hearts of higher compassion

He put on a silver plate — some golden fruits

And said to the sons of God — worship where worship suits

They all started extolling — all not out of fear but out of candor

Out of passion out of an astute sense of duty or out of — recollection

They all started extolling — all felt all in love with their golden idols

Deifying the fruits they shalt never get a chance to taste — nodding some terrible “amen”

I looked astounded and saddened at the assembly of the sons of God —

Those ones all called themselves « poets » —

Some so intoxicated in their fevers they died as struck by a lightning —

I doubt Zeus was the one to blame amongst the higher Gods

I doubt a poor and blameless demon should be accused here of such terrible litters

As it has always been told: « The Devil’s fruits — nobody’s ever related the savor — not even the savior! »

— Gilles F. Dogbo

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