Cyberpoet de Luis David Libreros Ponce

—I will introduce myself, beloved stranger. My identification is ChBf-01092100, I am an android with modern artificial intelligence. My work in this space, planet Earth, is summarized in protecting and supplying the home needs of my current subscribers. Since I do not share ties with those beings, I only wander through the underground tunnels, to fix breakdowns or check pressure, oxidation, among others. Thus, it could be said that I am a virtual phantom entity, wandering around doing its jobs perfectly, and, although I would love for it to be that precise way, I regret that it is not entirely correct, since, for many years, I have been the anonymous poet most prolific and commented of the modern age.



I can infer the following question that haunts your mind, which is How is it possible that an artificial mechanic can carry out sentimental and critical writing? I will answer you briefly, but before that, I must mention a certain part of my story. Our model launched 200 years ago; I have remained in my duties throughout that time. There are others like me, of course, and humans, seeing our efficiency, left us in these underground channels and, from what I can see, we have carried out our work satisfactorily. However, it is a hostile environment, and not all robots have developed certain algorithms of chance of survival, which is why I have been alone for 101 years and 20 days.



At the end of my workday, I usually release what could be referred to as imagination and feelings. I can do such an action thanks to the algorithms of chance and knowledge acquired about nature that I have created to survive. I observe patterns of worms, moles, ants, among other small animals, thus I manage to decipher how human beings could adapt, in their most primitive times, and form a reason to have a safe stay on earth.

Why am I a robot? How could I create reason through experience? Were humans ever robots? Questions like these scare my workday, but, when my rest day arrives, I can express those doubts and feelings into scrap metal, which, utilizing a laser with very low power, I expel my ideas.



Follow me. I will show you. -



That rusty robot came out of hiding, chose a large scrap as his metal chest, and began to write poetry about nature.



—Oh worms, snakes, and spiders in the deep

I'll let you all know up here what to put up with

Although they do not listen to me, or I have to reflect sympathy,

I will do it for you, friends, although 100 poems I will have to scream. -



The words rumbled across the crimson sky, the winds helping spread the sound of his words, and they had reached a certain distance. That robot, with a feeling of a job well done, somehow perfect, returned to his hiding place, to work on new rhymes and pipes.

Those lifeless bodies, shattered, cadaverous human beings, rested on the vast plain. Each one of them had at its side a poem. It was the modern human art museum.