Los poetas han muerto

Este cuento lo comenzé a escribir en Vancouver por HOBBY es por eso que esta en inglés... yo les adverti que subiria pedazos de cuentos y que no era escritor....
El titulo es una cancion de un grupo que se llamaba AVALANCH cantaban en español e inglés y se me hizo que iva un poco a doc con el tema ya que escribi en inglés pero mi lengua es española y pues por que el titulo del cuento es "the poet" que para quien no sepa, significa "el poeta"

Si hay suficientes peticiones(cosa que dudo mucho) lo traduciré a español

saz pues allí nos vemos


The Poet



Once upon a time, not so far away, there was poet, but this wasn't your average poet. No! My poet was the greatest poet of all times, and not happy with being the best, he worked hard trying to surpass himself.

Time went by and my poet found new ways of rhyming, but that couldn't make him happier, even though all rational thinking beings knew he had the best symmetry and the most rhythmical poems. Any elder poet would agree with this fact, but this fact didn't make him happy at all because even though everyone acknowledged his superior stanzas, he was not the people's favorite.

The reason he was not the favorite was very easy to tell. He had discovered all known possible rhymes, but there was a young poet living overseas who had showed up with new words, that even though they didn't rhyme as well as my poet's, touched the people's hearts.

So my discouraged poet went on a journey to find newer and better words for two reasons:

· The first, and personal, was to find new rhymes and combinations;

· The second one, to gain the hearts of the rational thinkers he was never able to win.

When he got in the boat to travel overseas, during the sea trip the poet cursed himself for not having brought more ink to write down the overwhelming number of new words he kept learning. When the voyage was finished, he discovered one thing: all his new words were being used by every single person on the new continent. This made my poet indeed very angry. All the effort he had undergone was in vain. All the wasted ink. And all these people didn't even know the wonderful treasures they had. He envied and pitied them.

My poet continued his travels around the new continent, thinking about his feelings toward the inhabitants who not only ignored the treasure they had, they, as my poet later realized, used it breaking all grammatical rules.

My poet, feeling afraid that his new rhymes would suffer by being used by these language rapists, started to think that maybe this trip was all done in vain, and then the idea of going back even crossed his mind—when he made the fatal mistake of turning his head to the west, the same direction from which a young lady had just yelled: "Green, white and red tulips! One piece of romance EACH, one piece of nickel."

He, who with his perfect stanzas, had earned the hearts and at the same time became the sexual desire of many of the most cold-blooded, yet gorgeous women back in his home continent, felt hopelessly attracted to the mediocre face of the yell's owner.