a humanist poem.

The poem below I feel like almost reads my thoughts. It is also how i feel sometimes about academics, philosophy, etc...
However, the real reason for me putting this poem up will make more sense with my next blog; which will be an article I recently wrote.
for now enjoy...


A man walks by with a stick of bread on his shoulder.
Am I going to write, after that, about my double?

Another sits, scratches, extracts a louse from his armpit, kills it.
How dare one speak about psychoanalysis?

Another has entered my chest with a stick in hand.
To talk then about Socrates with the doctor?

A lame man passes by holding a child's hand.
After that am I going to read Andre Breton?

Another trembles from cold, coughs, spits blood.
Will it ever be possible to allude to the profound I?

Another searches in the mud for bones, rinds.
How write, after that, about the infiinte?

A bricklayer falls from a roof, dies and no longer eats lunch.
To innovate, then, the trope, the metaphor?

A merchant cheats a customer out of a gram.
To speak, after that, about the fourth dimension?

A banker falsifies his balance sheet.
With what face to cry in the theater?

An outcast sleeps with his foot on his back.
To speak, after that, to anyone about Picasso?

Someone going to a burial sobbing.
How then become a member of the Academy?

Somone cleans a rifle in his kitchen.
How dare one speak about the beyond?

Someone passes by counting with his fingers.
How speak of the not-i without screaming?

-Cesar Vallejo