SAŠA MILIVOJEV: RESISTANCE – THE POET CANNOT BE SILENCED! THE POET IS A SYSTEM GLITCH, AN ERROR IN THE ALGORITHM.
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| Saša Milivojev |
Saša Milivojev
RESISTANCE – THE POET CANNOT BE SILENCED! THE POET IS A SYSTEM GLITCH, AN ERROR IN THE ALGORITHM.
I belong to no one. I owe nothing to anyone. I serve no one. My words are not bought with honorariums. They come from within me — from pain, from truth, from freedom.
The persecution I endure is not punishment — it is the consequence of freedom. Because a free man is the most dangerous threat to a system that feeds on obedience.
I will not retreat. I will not apologize. I will not justify myself. My very existence is proof that a poet cannot be silenced.
My presence in global media, in more than 20 languages, without a single connection, without a single recommendation, without a single aunt in the service — that is my answer.
I will not name those who persecute me. I will not give them publicity. But they will know they’ve been seen. They will know they’ve been read. They will know the poet has recognized them.
And you — who love me, who read my verses, who have wept over my words — you are my shield. You are my reason to continue.
And when I am gone — my words will remain. And when they silence me — my poems will speak. And when they erase me — my name will appear where they cannot control it. Because a poet never dies. He transforms into language. Into memory. Into resistance. For centuries.
I will not justify my freedom. I will not apologize for my truth. I will not bow before false authorities, purchased diplomas, and fabricated biographies.
My origin is the word. My wealth is thought. My diploma is the tear of an unknown reader. I belong to no one — only to poetry. I belong neither to the service nor the system. I belong only to language — and it has never betrayed me.
That is why you cannot silence me. That is why you cannot blackmail me. That is why you cannot buy me.
You may not see me on your screens. You may not hear me in your broadcasts. You may not find me in your institutions.
But you will find me in the verse — the one that aches and lingers. In the sentence that exposes. In the silence that speaks louder than your speeches.
And when the day of reckoning comes — when the slanderers face the mirror, when fake biographies collapse, when diplomas turn to ash — the poet will stand tall.
Not as a judge. Not as a revenger. But as a witness of time.
A poet is not society’s decoration. He is its conscience. Its wound. Its unrest.
A poet does not seek applause. He seeks truth. And when he finds it — he does not ask for permission. He speaks it.
That is why he is persecuted. That is why he is censored. That is why he is ignored.
Because the poet does not conform. He does not belong. He does not obey.
In a world where everything is measured by profit, the poet is a loss — because he brings no money, only discomfort. He brings questions. He brings the mirror. And he influences Judgment.
The poet does not need to shout. His silence echoes louder than your speeches.
His word — when sincere — dismantles constructs, unmasks the masked, separates truth from lies, sifts wheat from chaff.
That is why the poet does not appeal to office. He does not appeal to party. He does not appeal to service. He appeals to the soul.
And when that soul speaks — the world shifts.
Maybe not immediately. Maybe not loudly. But inevitably.
Because the poet does not write for the moment. He writes for eternity.
And when he is erased from programs, from broadcasts, from institutions — he remains in verse. In memory. In the hearts of those who wept over his words.
That is a power you cannot control. That is a presence you cannot erase.
That is the poet.
The poet is a threat. Not because he carries weapons — but because he carries truth.
In a world where lies are printed, broadcast, copied, and signed — the poet is a system glitch. An error in the algorithm. A virus in the matrix.
You cannot silence him — because he does not speak your language.
You cannot buy him — because he does not measure in your currencies.
You cannot frighten him — because he has already walked through hell.
The poet is the one who has seen the face of darkness — and chose to write.
Not for fame. Not for money. Not for position. But to remain human.
And that is what frightens you most.
Because the poet does not ask for permission to exist.
He exists in spite of everything.
In spite of blockades. In spite of censorship. In spite of threats.
And when you erase him from your programs — he will appear in dreams.
And when you shut the doors — he will enter through verse.
And when you turn off the light — he will write in the dark.
Because the poet does not need light to see. He burns from within.
And that fire cannot be extinguished.
It cannot be controlled.
It cannot be explained.
It can only be felt.
It can only be feared.
It can only be respected.
So do not touch me.
Not because I am powerful — but because I am defiant.
Not because I have protection — but because I have truth.
And truth, once spoken, does not go back.
It does not retreat.
It does not apologize.
It does not forget.
It remains.
Like a painful, unhealable wound.
RESISTANCE – THE POET CANNOT BE SILENCED! THE POET IS A SYSTEM GLITCH, AN ERROR IN THE ALGORITHM.
I belong to no one. I owe nothing to anyone. I serve no one. My words are not bought with honorariums. They come from within me — from pain, from truth, from freedom.
The persecution I endure is not punishment — it is the consequence of freedom. Because a free man is the most dangerous threat to a system that feeds on obedience.
I will not retreat. I will not apologize. I will not justify myself. My very existence is proof that a poet cannot be silenced.
My presence in global media, in more than 20 languages, without a single connection, without a single recommendation, without a single aunt in the service — that is my answer.
I will not name those who persecute me. I will not give them publicity. But they will know they’ve been seen. They will know they’ve been read. They will know the poet has recognized them.
And you — who love me, who read my verses, who have wept over my words — you are my shield. You are my reason to continue.
And when I am gone — my words will remain. And when they silence me — my poems will speak. And when they erase me — my name will appear where they cannot control it. Because a poet never dies. He transforms into language. Into memory. Into resistance. For centuries.
I will not justify my freedom. I will not apologize for my truth. I will not bow before false authorities, purchased diplomas, and fabricated biographies.
My origin is the word. My wealth is thought. My diploma is the tear of an unknown reader. I belong to no one — only to poetry. I belong neither to the service nor the system. I belong only to language — and it has never betrayed me.
That is why you cannot silence me. That is why you cannot blackmail me. That is why you cannot buy me.
You may not see me on your screens. You may not hear me in your broadcasts. You may not find me in your institutions.
But you will find me in the verse — the one that aches and lingers. In the sentence that exposes. In the silence that speaks louder than your speeches.
And when the day of reckoning comes — when the slanderers face the mirror, when fake biographies collapse, when diplomas turn to ash — the poet will stand tall.
Not as a judge. Not as a revenger. But as a witness of time.
A poet is not society’s decoration. He is its conscience. Its wound. Its unrest.
A poet does not seek applause. He seeks truth. And when he finds it — he does not ask for permission. He speaks it.
That is why he is persecuted. That is why he is censored. That is why he is ignored.
Because the poet does not conform. He does not belong. He does not obey.
In a world where everything is measured by profit, the poet is a loss — because he brings no money, only discomfort. He brings questions. He brings the mirror. And he influences Judgment.
The poet does not need to shout. His silence echoes louder than your speeches.
His word — when sincere — dismantles constructs, unmasks the masked, separates truth from lies, sifts wheat from chaff.
That is why the poet does not appeal to office. He does not appeal to party. He does not appeal to service. He appeals to the soul.
And when that soul speaks — the world shifts.
Maybe not immediately. Maybe not loudly. But inevitably.
Because the poet does not write for the moment. He writes for eternity.
And when he is erased from programs, from broadcasts, from institutions — he remains in verse. In memory. In the hearts of those who wept over his words.
That is a power you cannot control. That is a presence you cannot erase.
That is the poet.
The poet is a threat. Not because he carries weapons — but because he carries truth.
In a world where lies are printed, broadcast, copied, and signed — the poet is a system glitch. An error in the algorithm. A virus in the matrix.
You cannot silence him — because he does not speak your language.
You cannot buy him — because he does not measure in your currencies.
You cannot frighten him — because he has already walked through hell.
The poet is the one who has seen the face of darkness — and chose to write.
Not for fame. Not for money. Not for position. But to remain human.
And that is what frightens you most.
Because the poet does not ask for permission to exist.
He exists in spite of everything.
In spite of blockades. In spite of censorship. In spite of threats.
And when you erase him from your programs — he will appear in dreams.
And when you shut the doors — he will enter through verse.
And when you turn off the light — he will write in the dark.
Because the poet does not need light to see. He burns from within.
And that fire cannot be extinguished.
It cannot be controlled.
It cannot be explained.
It can only be felt.
It can only be feared.
It can only be respected.
So do not touch me.
Not because I am powerful — but because I am defiant.
Not because I have protection — but because I have truth.
And truth, once spoken, does not go back.
It does not retreat.
It does not apologize.
It does not forget.
It remains.
Like a painful, unhealable wound.
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