Passing Clouds
An expressive poem addressing loss of privacy and reflections on artificial intelligence and life.
SUMMARY
The poem expresses the loss of privacy in the modern era and the impact of replication and repetition on identity, along with reflections on artificial intelligence and its future role in poetry and life.
KEY HIGHLIGHTS
- Expression of loss of privacy and identity in faces and objects.
- Reflections on the impact of globalization and artificial intelligence on poetry and language.
CORE SUBJECT
Poetic reflections on privacy and artificial intelligence
Master keys alone are no longer capable of deceiving locked doors and breaching their privacy as we once thought.
Faces too,
with their replicated features, have confused the mirror's insight,
and disabled its scanner,
stammering in reading between the lines.
They are no longer like Narcissus's pool or a coffee cup reader.
And shoes, with their modern brands, have lost their uniqueness and their shared genes with feet whose own rhythm has dried up on the sheet music of streets,
stumbling over the discordant melodies of their record,
and the level of their steps dwindles into the well of distances,
falling into a whirlpool that finds no shoulder to support the balance scale.
All of this
because a poem whose poet forgot to lock the doors before leaving,
caused lips to be crowded with flocks of secret birds that have shed their cages,
and the path of return remained bitter once again.
A passerby,
like a passerby.
I lost the bag of my memories
at the first station I passed through.
Since then,
I have been spelling out the chapters of a novel
of which only the letters of your face remain.
Losing cards.
I trained myself early on
to avoid playing losing cards on the table of life.
So my choices narrowed down
only to
a friend with whom each of us takes turns holding one end of the text
to prevent its course from deviating from the path of language.
A poetry book whose shadows I lean on the tree of planted ancestors,
rooted like the molars of reason against the absurdity of globalization and its derivatives,
standing as a beacon at the crossroads of this cosmic exile,
and I scatter it over my swallowed myths in the wombs of poetry.
And I have other aims in it.
A woman whose oil lights the lamp of the poem,
widening the pupil of her metaphors,
and blooming the gardens of meaning.
A woman
whose necklace of seduction confides in me whenever
the tone of writing hoarsens and the platforms of words betray it.
Artificial intelligence.
Very soon,
in the era of artificial intelligence,
this phrase will knock on our ears often
when a poet stands to recite a poem that resembles him.