6
In the morning of that memorable day, but why
should I be so explicit since we start where something
is already finished, and I dreamed of being a character
of a novel and let them laugh at me.
Then they sit and wonder how easy it is to learn
to play a musical instrument; they don’t know the years
you turned on the light prudently, and later the victim
wasn’t as important, the killer can always kill someone
else.
So many half-finished things: a road where you felt
frightened, and you turned back, a child’s prayer that
was interrupted by the passing train, and they always
opened the door abruptly; for this, I never managed
to finish my age
Then they dragged me to the middle of the room and
made me swear to love them, which was detrimental
to my situation since then, and every night
I had to go beyond my limits like a dead man goes
beyond himself or a child they deemed innocent so
he couldn’t keep anything for himself.
And oh, deserted roads where you can talk to them
for hours while they don’t listen, humiliations with
the untraceable lust
as if you alone finally answered.
Then I dropped the letter, and we both leaned
down; mother was standing calmly at the door, fat
like a Bible (I thought she got married for no reason,
since I was always hers, like the gardener’s gratitude
or the flickering flame of a candle that doesn’t know
which direction to choose)
let us then leave everything to play their fateful
role, certainly with an unknown result, like the blind
who returns home without seeing it or the great
kingdoms of taverns that end at the door
and at midnight, when the other came still holding
the old hat in his hand, of the ones one finds easily
in anonymity, “hide me,” he says to me, “they chase me.”
But who could have had a relationship with such a
flaky person or someone who can help you in such a
trivial case?
And we finally die, unknown, in the darkest corner
of the poem.
