Nothing happens, not even the poem

Poets are the only ones who do not know why the only ones who find no reasons for things and events and changes and transformations and constants, the confused ones in everything and before everything, the lost ones in a forest of magical eyes, the only ones searching for what they do not know, and they are sad when they think they have found it, and when they think they have not found it, the only ones who stutter while reviewing their words, word by word, so the words become mixed up for them, and they rush like a great wave they cannot face. Poets are the only ones, the only ones with everything this word means.