Pash the favourite poet and his poem.

The plunder of labor is not the most dangerous,
The blows of the police are not the most dangerous,
The grip of betrayal and greed is not the most dangerous.
Being arrested without cause — that is bad,
Being trapped in a frightened silence — that is bad,
But it is not the most dangerous.
In the noise of deceit,
Being suppressed even when you are right — that is bad,
Reading by the light of a firefly — that is bad,
Clenching your fists and merely passing time — that is bad,
But it is not the most dangerous.
The most dangerous thing is
To be filled with a dead silence,
To feel no anguish, to endure everything.
To leave home for work,
And return home from work —
The most dangerous thing is
The death of our dreams.
The most dangerous moment is that
Which keeps ticking on your wrist,
Yet seems frozen in your perception.
The most dangerous eye is the one
That sees everything, yet is frozen like ice,
Whose gaze forgets to kiss the world with love,
That slips over the steam of rising blindness,
That, drinking the routine of everyday life,
Gets lost in a purposeless repetition.
The most dangerous moon is the one
That rises after every massacre
Over deserted courtyards,
Yet does not pierce your eyes like burning chilies.
The most dangerous song is the one
That reaches your ears
Reciting elegies,
That stands arrogantly like goons
At the doors of terrified people.
The most dangerous night is the one
That descends upon the skies of a living soul,
Where only owls hoot and jackals howl,
Clinging forever to the dark, closed doors and thresholds.
The most dangerous direction is the one
Where the sun of the soul sets,
And a fragment of its dead sunlight
Pierces the east of your body.
The plunder of labor is not the most dangerous,
The blows of the police are not the most dangerous,
The grip of betrayal and greed is not the most dangerous.