there must be a moment
before the age of restlessness
when you can still say I don’t want to
time to choose
to keep one’s own master
or to decide not to decide thereafter
the last turning area
to pick up the footprints and endure
before the mark when the road crumbles apart
a single moment: that of the suicide’s signature,
the concentration of the trapeze artist,
the dance in front of a penalty shot
every predicament can take on a remedy
before inertia ties from the outside
and the impossible gesture freezes in
a moment to collect the look and recall of you
forgetful already of that elusive moment
which has long gone ahead of you
as if it was only meant to remind
those who are strangely still alive
that love is eagerness not to be
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