When a poet dies

Time ceases to be memory. 

Motionless words remain there 

Diluted pages of the inspiration that one day was.

Reality touch 

dry leaves of the autumn Homer never saw. 

The heart of the poem stops beating. 

Until some heteronymous reader. 

Reads again the resurrection of the verses. 

Life shines again. 

What happens to the poet then? 

Perhaps smiles under the dust of reading. 

Which is and will be a universe 

that can become a poem again.