THE SUN ENVIES ME

My rags refract some brownish tints.
I’m not befriended with the blue, nor can I fly.
I belong in the earth which sticks to my skin.
The earth that some time shall cover me all over.

If one of these days I switch off,
I draw solace from the thought
that nobody I know of
will bother to notice.

Only the dew will grieve me,
discreetly, in the impatient dawn
which will be nowhere about
because I won’t be listening to it.

I am actually too minute
before such huge beauty in the world,
and all I possess of my own
are my tiny life and its fellow shadow.

When the skylight sets
its heavy load on my back,
I lug along as my sole burden
my unsteady steps.

The Sun envies my insignificance,
my dumbness and redundancies,
and with its steel
cruelly drills through my pupils.

The colours then begin
flowing slowly from
all beings
as in a requiem.

The Sun envies me.
As a god(dess)
or some species as stingy
the Sun envies my lot.

When the Sun turns off,
it won’t go once for all,
the Sun rests will still rest in peace
as all ashes and cosmic hiss.

But I, if I hit on extinction,
I shall vanish as a whole,
in flesh and in ghost,
in memory and oblivion.

The Sun won’t
even go close.