Wednesday, December 29, 2010


Tãchons d’entrer dans la mort les yeux ouverts...
(Marguerite Yourcenar)

I am not like most guys, who feel stalked
but pretend not to notice.
I understand I can do nothing without nothing,
which leads my way and waits
for me at the end of my days.

Likewise, I would go lost without the hours,
which confer to the space routines.
The hours also march to their last, and drag me with them.
If I fail to keep up, then he slows down his pace:
he is a courteous old gentleman, quite fond of waiting.

In sum, I know that the small shadow
that was born with me,
feeds on my body
and goes on growing relentlessly,
till one day it will clog me head to toe.

Nevertheless, it is good policy to spare an escape route up-sleeve.
Not to attach to life is the preserve of the sick.
Even if I miss any new tricks,
I still believe I won't see anything coming
as long as if I keep the eyes wide open.

During the period we dwell under his wings,
all lack of care can only elicit an early visit.
There are no such things as accidents.
Accidents only confirm the blunder of retirement statistics
and add to the bulky profits of insurance companies.

When I sneeze without enough reasons,
when a psychotic-looking hasty commuter hits on my devious ways,
or when I, following a cloud, step on the zebra stripe
without looking both sides,
I know he is somewhere around.

I know he spies on me
from the blind side of normalcy,
drawing closer and closer
until nothing is all that you
can hardly notice.

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