It Came to Me In a Dream

It came to me in a dream:
a poem about poetry is not poetry
the words we use are never ours
it cannot rhyme, 'cause times have changed
the flow is out of joint, as is our world
no periods, no accents, except the one we speak with
we write in tongues we were not born with
it came to me in a dream I no longer remember
only the voice of a friend asking where I was
and we write like kittens licking a blank page on a typewriter
our language sandpaper grinding against whiteness
nuestra lengua es otra y es rasposa (I'd like to say)
today of all days when waking up is harder
we are out of sync; constantly logged out 
from the rhythm of everyday things
it's not a butterfly in Japan but another bomb in the Ukraine
it came to me in a dream 
our diaries a collection of obituaries 
y nuestras voces los ecos y la memoria del pasado
stop time for once and try to voice it