Populus me sibilat, at mihi laudo.
(Horatio)
I mentioned I usually walk all by myself.
But I am more of a loner than a hermit
and never really dismiss the company
of whoever tries to keep pace with me.
Even those who look down on my habits.
Whatever they bear on their minds or tongues
is thin air, how could it weigh on me like a burden?
They talk so many words that I wonder
if there are so many things out there
just enough to fit under.
Hence, it is no cause for concern
if they can err in what they utter.
The world is far too crowded, we better not still add
to the number of beings that there are already,
and leave all that job to God and good looking glasses.
Yet I confess – I am fond of men.
Humours, tics, burning cigarettes.
I particularly cherish women and children,
though, if I had known, I would have stoned
who damn invented them in a binge of boredom.
And when the kids or the booing chase me down,
when I am spat upon by the dignified champions
of work-morale and public duties,
I take on their hints as a compliment.
Because I can still laugh even when it's just not the case.
Then, if I burst out laughing for no apparent reason,
I don't mean to tease who happens to be listening.
Remember– I am only the fool laughing at reason.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
I DON'T HAVE A FACE OR A NAME
È come se una nube
arrivasse ad avere
forma di nube.
(Valerio Magrelli)
I don’t have a face or a name.
Don’t expect me to churn out
from my pocket a greeting card
after delivering the same speech
in the middle of an empty street.
I don’t deserve the constancy of a faithful name.
To be perfectly honest, I never bothered to be the same.
Though I seem to keep
running after my tail,
I never keep us on the same trail.
I’m not the grown-up from my own child,
nor am I the guy I left behind ten minutes ago.
The very same time which creases my features
and bends my shoulders
builds me up once more.
I am my son and heir, shaped
out of nothingness after my sheer unlikeness.
The same naught that gives me stuff and meaning,
for I realise that I just keep on living
as long as I serve as fodder to oblivion.
But they think me as a point to pin down
on the Cartesian ground,
and ask for my credentials
from the union of clowns.
I who am only where I ain’t or where I still can’t:
as that ship which can’t be seen from ashore,
but drifts onto us wrapped by the distance,
a rough bulk deprived of form,
it is, so as to say, a mountain of mist,
but a thing, no, it still isn’t;
or as love before love,
betrayed in a whim or shiver of hand,
squeezed between conventions and machinisms,
but, once enquired, you promptly deny it,
because love, no, it can’t still be it.
No word could fit me, since, as those of my kin,
I am solely made of flesh and bone,
and have never known
anyone composed of sterner stuff,
of ideals and high-flown goals.
Names
we can only deserve when
we grow mute so as not to need them,
as soon as we are finally through
with all the things we're long overdue.
arrivasse ad avere
forma di nube.
(Valerio Magrelli)
I don’t have a face or a name.
Don’t expect me to churn out
from my pocket a greeting card
after delivering the same speech
in the middle of an empty street.
I don’t deserve the constancy of a faithful name.
To be perfectly honest, I never bothered to be the same.
Though I seem to keep
running after my tail,
I never keep us on the same trail.
I’m not the grown-up from my own child,
nor am I the guy I left behind ten minutes ago.
The very same time which creases my features
and bends my shoulders
builds me up once more.
I am my son and heir, shaped
out of nothingness after my sheer unlikeness.
The same naught that gives me stuff and meaning,
for I realise that I just keep on living
as long as I serve as fodder to oblivion.
But they think me as a point to pin down
on the Cartesian ground,
and ask for my credentials
from the union of clowns.
I who am only where I ain’t or where I still can’t:
as that ship which can’t be seen from ashore,
but drifts onto us wrapped by the distance,
a rough bulk deprived of form,
it is, so as to say, a mountain of mist,
but a thing, no, it still isn’t;
or as love before love,
betrayed in a whim or shiver of hand,
squeezed between conventions and machinisms,
but, once enquired, you promptly deny it,
because love, no, it can’t still be it.
No word could fit me, since, as those of my kin,
I am solely made of flesh and bone,
and have never known
anyone composed of sterner stuff,
of ideals and high-flown goals.
Names
we can only deserve when
we grow mute so as not to need them,
as soon as we are finally through
with all the things we're long overdue.
DON'T YOU AIM AT THE STONES
Don’t you aim at the stones,
for they don’t know what they fly for.
Behave on fair terms with earth
and all of its freakiest creatures
that you in one of your future
lives may already have the fortune
to proudly have been before.
Don’t make complaints about the plants,
don’t demand amends on how you treat
or go treated by the beasts.
They have no clue as to
wether they bother or better you.
Your expectations have no room outside you,
and nature is,
in your exact similarity,
neither vicious nor virtuous.
Nonetheless, if on a hot day, the whole sun
starts to weigh down on your back,
go fetch under a tree’s hat
a grassy rest.
And feel how cozy in this hug
you find no cause to grudge.
Then lie there for a brief
lap sleep.
for they don’t know what they fly for.
Behave on fair terms with earth
and all of its freakiest creatures
that you in one of your future
lives may already have the fortune
to proudly have been before.
Don’t make complaints about the plants,
don’t demand amends on how you treat
or go treated by the beasts.
They have no clue as to
wether they bother or better you.
Your expectations have no room outside you,
and nature is,
in your exact similarity,
neither vicious nor virtuous.
Nonetheless, if on a hot day, the whole sun
starts to weigh down on your back,
go fetch under a tree’s hat
a grassy rest.
And feel how cozy in this hug
you find no cause to grudge.
Then lie there for a brief
lap sleep.
WHEN I FEEL TIRED
When I go exhausted and it feels like I only plod along pointlessly,
when the road furrows my feet
and I begin to find flaws with
whatever happens to surround me,
I close my eyes and conceive imaginary realms,
though more real than the life we people lead,
weaved in phantasmagoria.
In such worlds I crash from my own party a meal all of mine,
I serve my own water and pour out my own wine.
And the feast lasts as long as I can last,
for the usher rings the bell whenever I tell
and only hushes it when I can't tell any longer.
I don’t miss other resources or guests,
a dog and a moon are as good as it gets.
Then I open my eyes and understand
that all I dream about, regardless of pretense, I own already,
and I don't long for another life or deny the longings
that amount to make this one up, I simply believe I can get
them all resolved without resort to anything heavier than thought.
And they know how to wait patiently
for the moment of their invention or discovery.
Fed on my elusive banquet,
I don’t blame chance but bless it minutely.
Through all the odds and ends of impossibility,
I pray with all my lack of faith for it to stay
with me all along, for without it
the world just doesn’t know
which way it should go.
Thus, no source and no thirst,
neither hunger nor abundance
shall lead me astray,
come what may.
Flinch, I sure can,
just not today.
when the road furrows my feet
and I begin to find flaws with
whatever happens to surround me,
I close my eyes and conceive imaginary realms,
though more real than the life we people lead,
weaved in phantasmagoria.
In such worlds I crash from my own party a meal all of mine,
I serve my own water and pour out my own wine.
And the feast lasts as long as I can last,
for the usher rings the bell whenever I tell
and only hushes it when I can't tell any longer.
I don’t miss other resources or guests,
a dog and a moon are as good as it gets.
Then I open my eyes and understand
that all I dream about, regardless of pretense, I own already,
and I don't long for another life or deny the longings
that amount to make this one up, I simply believe I can get
them all resolved without resort to anything heavier than thought.
And they know how to wait patiently
for the moment of their invention or discovery.
Fed on my elusive banquet,
I don’t blame chance but bless it minutely.
Through all the odds and ends of impossibility,
I pray with all my lack of faith for it to stay
with me all along, for without it
the world just doesn’t know
which way it should go.
Thus, no source and no thirst,
neither hunger nor abundance
shall lead me astray,
come what may.
Flinch, I sure can,
just not today.
A TELESCOPE
Who said I feel resentment towards the selfish?
Nor do I despise the pristine or late-anti-liberals.
I am not even taken aback by the morally handicapped.
As all the afore-mentioned,
I also sustain that there is no fact of matter
to constrain us to be righteous or too goody.
If I were the invisible guy (as I am on closer inspection),
I would not refrain from kissing the florist’s lips,
substantial as a rich dish.
I would also collect myself from the church box
the amount of my own due alms
(well, it is more fun done than said).
I concede that it is only strictly reasonable
to do or not to do
what we are previously agreed on.
We are all free
and for atavism solely carry along
the so-called social gene.
That is why I dream about a city exclusive for them.
I suggest that they should leave us behind
and go found with their vast talents and resources
a country all for their relish and profit,
on an unreachable mountain range or far-off island
in safe distance so as to keep our peace guaranteed.
It would be exhilarating to probe through a telescope
how they would come out
living together.
I guess it would make stuff for a broad gamut
of gags their joint capacity
to conjure up disaster.
I don’t intend to make out of them
an object of lecture.
It is only too natural
that they aim at their intents,
why should they be prevented?
Just don’t count on me as a target.
I simply regret
that as long as they don’t take their leave,
that land of theirs
turns out to be precisely this.
It’s the old saying about the rotten apple
that ruins the whole basket.
Therefore, don’t reproach me,
all too dignified members
of our good-scented and manicured
time-honoured society.
Don’t feel annoyed if my fashion-unconsciousness appear
to intrude upon your taste and your penchant for the superior.
Because if I reek to the disgrace of all social-graces
(and much worse than my remaining teeth),
and am too far from handsome
(to the point mirrors look abashed at me),
I only repeat with my poor means
your great looks and your grand manners.
Nor do I despise the pristine or late-anti-liberals.
I am not even taken aback by the morally handicapped.
As all the afore-mentioned,
I also sustain that there is no fact of matter
to constrain us to be righteous or too goody.
If I were the invisible guy (as I am on closer inspection),
I would not refrain from kissing the florist’s lips,
substantial as a rich dish.
I would also collect myself from the church box
the amount of my own due alms
(well, it is more fun done than said).
I concede that it is only strictly reasonable
to do or not to do
what we are previously agreed on.
We are all free
and for atavism solely carry along
the so-called social gene.
That is why I dream about a city exclusive for them.
I suggest that they should leave us behind
and go found with their vast talents and resources
a country all for their relish and profit,
on an unreachable mountain range or far-off island
in safe distance so as to keep our peace guaranteed.
It would be exhilarating to probe through a telescope
how they would come out
living together.
I guess it would make stuff for a broad gamut
of gags their joint capacity
to conjure up disaster.
I don’t intend to make out of them
an object of lecture.
It is only too natural
that they aim at their intents,
why should they be prevented?
Just don’t count on me as a target.
I simply regret
that as long as they don’t take their leave,
that land of theirs
turns out to be precisely this.
It’s the old saying about the rotten apple
that ruins the whole basket.
Therefore, don’t reproach me,
all too dignified members
of our good-scented and manicured
time-honoured society.
Don’t feel annoyed if my fashion-unconsciousness appear
to intrude upon your taste and your penchant for the superior.
Because if I reek to the disgrace of all social-graces
(and much worse than my remaining teeth),
and am too far from handsome
(to the point mirrors look abashed at me),
I only repeat with my poor means
your great looks and your grand manners.
IF YOUR FRIENDS ASK YOU ABOUT THEIR FAILINGS
Make up at your friends’ request
minor defects in case they ask.
Such that any good man
should smile at compassionately.
Never censure
an act whose practice
did not belong to you,
even those that nagged you.
Our circumstances, we alone know them,
and even that is no big deal after all,
as a tree never knows for certain
where all of its fruits may fall.
And thus, each of us
only by herself can deserve
punishment
or solace.
minor defects in case they ask.
Such that any good man
should smile at compassionately.
Never censure
an act whose practice
did not belong to you,
even those that nagged you.
Our circumstances, we alone know them,
and even that is no big deal after all,
as a tree never knows for certain
where all of its fruits may fall.
And thus, each of us
only by herself can deserve
punishment
or solace.
ON NOTHING
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.
(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.
WHAT'S IN A NAME
when I say babe your eyes
impersonate the very beauty,
I don’t mean your two or more legs
are not just as bewildering
when I shout out come over here o boy,
I call that brat approaching on a hobbyhorse,
not his brother who skipped class the day before
and stayed home today grounded for his joy
when I mention I feel the utmost pleasure
every occasion I hear you singing,
I hereby don’t waive other merriments
that may drive me equally content
so it goes: every time we say anything,
we have to keep quiet at the same time
the sum of all the other beings
a single word summons in
and, at the end of the day,
who knows how many silences
we put to say
just what we mean?
impersonate the very beauty,
I don’t mean your two or more legs
are not just as bewildering
when I shout out come over here o boy,
I call that brat approaching on a hobbyhorse,
not his brother who skipped class the day before
and stayed home today grounded for his joy
when I mention I feel the utmost pleasure
every occasion I hear you singing,
I hereby don’t waive other merriments
that may drive me equally content
so it goes: every time we say anything,
we have to keep quiet at the same time
the sum of all the other beings
a single word summons in
and, at the end of the day,
who knows how many silences
we put to say
just what we mean?
AMOR FATI, MA NON TROPPO
1.
I refute those who don’t think
and those who think I’m a thinker.
I never sought for truth.
But, if you are fond of lies,
I can spin off more than a tale.
So I leave you to your philosophy.
Just call me back, then,
as soon as you are finished.
I have never inquired after directions.
If there really were such things
my feet would always consult me
on the way they should go.
Nor am I driven to the gleam of gold:
no money pays for my share in time.
To have mine and throw it away
is good enough to make my day.
And I sing and dance as any severe worshipper of wine.
But I don’t celebrate what I got or will attain.
I’ve long given up any pretension or pretence of perfection.
So don’t imagine that I'll take part in the guys’ quest
for things which needed mending.
All wrong and pain are the by-product of men
or else exist only before our unclear conscience.
I can go delirious more seriously.
Don’t ask me either
if we are flesh besides fire.
One life is much
too much already.
If there is another death after that,
it is not likely.
But who knows for certain
other than the dead?
I guess I’ll be happy
to make their pleasurable acquaintance on due occasion.
But if it happens that nothing else happens,
why should I worry in anticipation?
For the time being, I feel fully satisfied
with this plain though transient certainty
that at least for the time being
I’m still very much alive and kicking.
2.
I admit that my anti-philosophy is also a philosophy.
It is just of a kind that won’t have us attached
to the orderly bundle
but would rather let us hang freely.
Since there mustn’t be other reasons to the world
than those it doesn’t care to tell us already,
I insist we should give it the final word.
Our idols are all very fine
but they won’t outstay us.
I don’t mean we should take our fate at face value.
For those, like me, that unfortunately nestle
much beneath the food chain’s safety level,
and who only for tastelessness or distraction
haven’t been so far devoured,
beyond any controversy,
life stinks.
And no poet or thinker might adjust or reengineer
our innate skill just not to fit.
But I also misled myself by seeking
too deep for grounds,
until one day I got myself buried
in foolproof doubts.
Later, when my remains were returned,
my recyclers found me not just the same
but also as dissimilar as before.
My essence has become that of the mirrors:
it is all of them or none at all.
And the world as a split glass repeats me.
Like a shattered Dionysus, my shards
walk for me and scatter our voices all over.
Those echoes are the brood
I was not able to make for myself.
They are my providence that chance
will not fail us. I sing only as a means to assure
that miracles, if they deign to ensue,
might ultimately favour us.
But I won’t grieve for my late substance.
Everything changes or may get changed.
I imagine it must be really great
to wake up every day having our old lady by one side,
but it sounds even greater only to realise
that each new day may bless us, god Grant,
with a surprise!
Best gait to take is wandering around
without any fixed ideas or steady grounds.
I live in all the things that once assaulted me in my wanderings
and since never again wished to go all by themselves.
As a matter of fact, I’m so small and vacant,
that I barely exist on my own.
But a city multiplies me.
All the roads in the city cross in my feet.
A city leads me
much beyond my loneliness.
With me a city makes love.
A city: myriads of stances that coalesce into unity,
like those small colourful bits
that juxtaposed in a certain arrangement
compose the bittersweet mosaic
of all what there is.
A city gathers me together.
I find and lose myself. I am every man.
Because there must be a love even bigger than the city:
the love that makes us want it ever bigger and bigger.
I refute those who don’t think
and those who think I’m a thinker.
I never sought for truth.
But, if you are fond of lies,
I can spin off more than a tale.
So I leave you to your philosophy.
Just call me back, then,
as soon as you are finished.
I have never inquired after directions.
If there really were such things
my feet would always consult me
on the way they should go.
Nor am I driven to the gleam of gold:
no money pays for my share in time.
To have mine and throw it away
is good enough to make my day.
And I sing and dance as any severe worshipper of wine.
But I don’t celebrate what I got or will attain.
I’ve long given up any pretension or pretence of perfection.
So don’t imagine that I'll take part in the guys’ quest
for things which needed mending.
All wrong and pain are the by-product of men
or else exist only before our unclear conscience.
I can go delirious more seriously.
Don’t ask me either
if we are flesh besides fire.
One life is much
too much already.
If there is another death after that,
it is not likely.
But who knows for certain
other than the dead?
I guess I’ll be happy
to make their pleasurable acquaintance on due occasion.
But if it happens that nothing else happens,
why should I worry in anticipation?
For the time being, I feel fully satisfied
with this plain though transient certainty
that at least for the time being
I’m still very much alive and kicking.
2.
I admit that my anti-philosophy is also a philosophy.
It is just of a kind that won’t have us attached
to the orderly bundle
but would rather let us hang freely.
Since there mustn’t be other reasons to the world
than those it doesn’t care to tell us already,
I insist we should give it the final word.
Our idols are all very fine
but they won’t outstay us.
I don’t mean we should take our fate at face value.
For those, like me, that unfortunately nestle
much beneath the food chain’s safety level,
and who only for tastelessness or distraction
haven’t been so far devoured,
beyond any controversy,
life stinks.
And no poet or thinker might adjust or reengineer
our innate skill just not to fit.
But I also misled myself by seeking
too deep for grounds,
until one day I got myself buried
in foolproof doubts.
Later, when my remains were returned,
my recyclers found me not just the same
but also as dissimilar as before.
My essence has become that of the mirrors:
it is all of them or none at all.
And the world as a split glass repeats me.
Like a shattered Dionysus, my shards
walk for me and scatter our voices all over.
Those echoes are the brood
I was not able to make for myself.
They are my providence that chance
will not fail us. I sing only as a means to assure
that miracles, if they deign to ensue,
might ultimately favour us.
But I won’t grieve for my late substance.
Everything changes or may get changed.
I imagine it must be really great
to wake up every day having our old lady by one side,
but it sounds even greater only to realise
that each new day may bless us, god Grant,
with a surprise!
Best gait to take is wandering around
without any fixed ideas or steady grounds.
I live in all the things that once assaulted me in my wanderings
and since never again wished to go all by themselves.
As a matter of fact, I’m so small and vacant,
that I barely exist on my own.
But a city multiplies me.
All the roads in the city cross in my feet.
A city leads me
much beyond my loneliness.
With me a city makes love.
A city: myriads of stances that coalesce into unity,
like those small colourful bits
that juxtaposed in a certain arrangement
compose the bittersweet mosaic
of all what there is.
A city gathers me together.
I find and lose myself. I am every man.
Because there must be a love even bigger than the city:
the love that makes us want it ever bigger and bigger.
I HATE WHAT IS RECALLED
μισῶ μνήμονα συμπóτην
Dump the remains of my past
on the underneath layer of time’s embers.
What has become of them? Don't ask
- I hate the one who remembers.
The street horns hail my child’s wail:
I have been born only recently.
And if by chance I meet an acquaintance,
it seems I got a seizure of déjà-vu.
Joys, I had plenty.
Aches, better not to mention them.
Both I have abandoned entangled,
consigned to the same grave.
Don’t request references.
I don’t hold advice, no offence.
I have no science and no experience:
I just let the way keep up the pace.
I want to let go, move from, feel free
I don’t know how or when or what for.
I want to go, to become, not to be.
I have no hereafter and no before.
Dump the remains of my past
on the underneath layer of time’s embers.
What has become of them? Don't ask
- I hate the one who remembers.
The street horns hail my child’s wail:
I have been born only recently.
And if by chance I meet an acquaintance,
it seems I got a seizure of déjà-vu.
Joys, I had plenty.
Aches, better not to mention them.
Both I have abandoned entangled,
consigned to the same grave.
Don’t request references.
I don’t hold advice, no offence.
I have no science and no experience:
I just let the way keep up the pace.
I want to let go, move from, feel free
I don’t know how or when or what for.
I want to go, to become, not to be.
I have no hereafter and no before.
THE GYPSY SONG OR ON FREE WILL
One afternoon a gypsy,
who long stalked on me,
tugged on my shirt,
asking if she could treat me with a read.
I replied in bold terms
that given the contingent event
that future could be told beforehand,
there was no point in my responding
whether in the end I would accept or rebut
a proposal whose result she claimed to own
however to me altogether unbeknown.
Without flinching, she said I couldn't possibly resist it.
I burst in laugh, repealing never and never
had I felt tempted at tampering with a business that
was of sole concern for a flock of planets.
In sum, she had been unfortunate in her fortunetelling,
so could she please release my sleeve and clear the way?
I saw then her recoiling in a clangor
of glaring veils and false gold,
only wondering what had gone wrong...
Yes, I lied to her, though it is late for self-serving repentance.
She had claimed that in all seamless fabric of time-space,
nothing could ever happen to her ignorance.
And I, a pedestrian Faust, would have gone in grace
if she had unveiled me a glance of what’s in stock,
were it fact, were it fraud.
But, on second thoughts,
I would lie time and again,
for, if I had consented, in the end,
I would have lost not only the argument,
but also, addition to my temper, the will
to believe in a free will.
who long stalked on me,
tugged on my shirt,
asking if she could treat me with a read.
I replied in bold terms
that given the contingent event
that future could be told beforehand,
there was no point in my responding
whether in the end I would accept or rebut
a proposal whose result she claimed to own
however to me altogether unbeknown.
Without flinching, she said I couldn't possibly resist it.
I burst in laugh, repealing never and never
had I felt tempted at tampering with a business that
was of sole concern for a flock of planets.
In sum, she had been unfortunate in her fortunetelling,
so could she please release my sleeve and clear the way?
I saw then her recoiling in a clangor
of glaring veils and false gold,
only wondering what had gone wrong...
Yes, I lied to her, though it is late for self-serving repentance.
She had claimed that in all seamless fabric of time-space,
nothing could ever happen to her ignorance.
And I, a pedestrian Faust, would have gone in grace
if she had unveiled me a glance of what’s in stock,
were it fact, were it fraud.
But, on second thoughts,
I would lie time and again,
for, if I had consented, in the end,
I would have lost not only the argument,
but also, addition to my temper, the will
to believe in a free will.
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