When a poet has nothing more to say

When a poet has nothing more to say
they talk to the stars,
one thousand microscopic titanic little flames
of the eternal abyss, lighthouses of the cosmic nothing,
angels’ breath to human prayers.

When a poet has nothing more to say,
they dedicate petty and mortal words,
verb destined to obsolescence,
motionless adverbs, objects that don’t paint,
to the asters, stars that are queens of the universe,
empresses to celestial bodies,
trace of paradise, of dreams of
Aristotle, Dante and the whole humanity
that dared to rake the eyes
and theorise on the begin and on the end,
on the first and the last light.

When a poet has nothing more to say,
they become an astronomer, hang from the lips of Stephen Hawking,
theories, experiments, the annihilation of the world,
theology and physics too,
for the state this sacred science.
For the war the core of the stars,
for the peace their light,
prayers and equations,
suns for nocturnal animals,
eternal praise, inexplicable math calculations.

When a poet has nothing more to say,
they talk to the stars
and the written words will be eternal,
because they’ll become supernovas,
because the first and the last light
of the existence of life has been discovered.
When a poet has nothing more to say,
Gumilëv told Mandelshtam,
hey talk to the stars,
And Mandelshtam wrote about the stars.