I looked around the time to see who was there. I found an ordinary day, the 20th of January. As if poetry itself begins on its day. So I am going to talk about these dead poets. Where should I start from? Perhaps inspiration would be wine. Then, from whom does it come and to whom does it go, that which comes to me? Only time itself will tell. I remain a confidant a witness, and also a poet.
Because Erasmus himself, when he wrote about madness perhaps he was praising all the dead poets? Because it is a worldly madness, to understand what we do not feel or only see? What can we feel in verse or on the edge of having eyes contemplating a poem? The living praise and the dead feel the applause of the true heirs of their poems.
Tribute to the poet of the dead society.