debt

AS NIGHT CAME by, aunt Adriana would sit at the piano and play this slow melody
as if to hide a secret or cut an irreparable rose.’tis why darkness, when she stopped, thickened.

Ah! this beautiful mystery of solitude, the mystery of being two or, the great mystery of being All.

Nevertheless, after so long a time, only a dim memory lies, an old forgotten book
I will never see or read again.

And I felt I had this strange debt that someone may enter at anytime to claim.

Raindrops on the glass so illegible.

Privilege of misunderstanding.Â

 

door

I often thought beginning again.
I would need at least an
easy tranquile afternoon or
a train arriving on
schedule.

A mere carnal delight
of intimate theft would do.
A fioriture pick from Wilde’s
words would do fine too.

Then again, I prefer forgetfulness or
chat with the next-door carpenter who’s
passion for old alleys whispered sense,
and if dogs did not bark at night,
eternity would go unnoticed

With all my due respect for miscalculations
which saved my life all too often, I have to admit:
I have been an ideal patient.

One thing bothered me though, a tiny detail.
I could not see my pipe in the mirror.

No, no, no. I’m not absurd. It is because of this magic
of words of no particular meaning, that
this paradox of a journey would have no value

if it was reality

idiot©2003Â