You might make a program
in a machine translate poetry
and get something adequate,
but between your mind
and that of the poet,
as a bridge,
is no longer a third living
mind (forget the dates of birth
and death, we live in art),
but something that is not dead,
what never lived, never thought,
was never moved
by what it was set to change
from one tongue to another
and bring into your mind.
And, as biased as I am,
doesn't something of that
unliving end up touching
you, giving a chill, stricken
tune from the void blowing
where a bridge should stand,
when you have the words
translated by the mindless
implanted in your being?
08.03.2025
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