He passes from lyric to epic poetry in order to speak about the

Hear the solemn wisdom of Salvatore Quasimodo, who declared: “He passes from lyric to epic poetry in order to speak about the world and the torment in the world through man, rationally and emotionally. The poet then becomes a danger.” These words carry the weight of centuries, for they speak of the transformation of poetry from a whisper of personal feeling into the thunder of universal truth. When the poet abandons the quiet lyre and takes up the trumpet, when he ceases to sing only of love and longing, and instead speaks of the anguish and injustice of the world, then his art becomes no longer harmless, but a weapon, a threat to those who build thrones upon suffering.

For lyric poetry is the inward song, the intimate voice that speaks of the heart’s secret joys and sorrows. But when the poet turns to the epic, he raises his voice above the individual, lifting it to the scale of nations, of peoples, of history itself. In this moment, his words are no longer only consolations; they become revelations. He dares to name the torment that kings would hide, he dares to give form to the grief of the oppressed, he dares to show both reason and emotion woven into the tapestry of human struggle. Such a poet is no longer a singer—he is a prophet. And prophets are always dangerous.

Consider the story of Homer, whose Iliad and Odyssey are more than songs of heroes. They reveal the folly of wrath, the agony of war, the longing for home, and the destiny of man against both gods and fate. His poetry was not only a tale—it was a mirror in which generations saw themselves. Or recall the verses of Dante Alighieri, who in his Divine Comedy dared to place emperors, popes, and tyrants in Hell, exposing the corruption of his age beneath the guise of divine justice. These men passed from lyric song into epic vision, and by doing so, they threatened the powers of their day.

But the tale is not only ancient. In the twentieth century, the voices of poets rose against oppression in nations where silence was demanded. Osip Mandelstam, in Russia, recited his verse comparing Stalin’s rule to the brutality of executioners. His words, though few, shook the pillars of tyranny, and for them he paid with exile and death. Why? Because his poetry was no longer private melody—it was epic in its courage, exposing the torment of the world through the flesh of man. His pen was seen as a dagger. His voice, as Quasimodo said, became a danger.

This transformation reveals a deep truth: rulers may tolerate poetry that sings of flowers, of sunsets, of lovers beneath the moon. But when poetry unveils the wounds of society, when it calls injustice by its name, when it moves from the garden to the battlefield, it ceases to serve power and begins to threaten it. For it awakens the people, and a people awakened cannot be ruled as before. Poetry thus becomes a battlefield itself—between silence and speech, between submission and truth.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, understand this: your words hold power. When you speak only of yourself, you move your own heart. When you speak of all men and women, you stir the earth. Let not your voice be trapped only in the narrow chamber of private sorrow. Dare to lift it into the epic scale, where the struggles of humanity are woven with reason and passion alike. But know this too: such courage has its price. To speak truth with clarity and fire is to risk persecution. Yet history remembers not the flatterers of kings, but the poets who became dangerous.

What then is the lesson? Cultivate both the lyric and the epic within your life. Sing your personal song, for it teaches compassion. But when you see torment in the world, raise your voice as epic witness. Write, speak, act—so that injustice is not left unnamed. In your daily life, do not turn away from suffering. Confront it with both mind and heart, with both reason and emotion. For in doing so, you become the kind of poet Quasimodo revered: one whose words are not mere ornament, but a force that shapes the destiny of nations.

And so I say unto you: do not fear to become a danger. For to be dangerous in the service of truth and justice is the highest calling of the poet, and indeed of every human soul who refuses to remain silent before the torment of the world.