It is useless to choose another way,
to decide between this wounded word and a yawn,
to go through the door after which you will get lost
or to go along like something that's been forgotten.
It is useless to water roots
that are chimeras, trees or scars,
to change roles and of scenery,
to be a bow, a string, a bitch or a shadow,
to name and not to name, to decide by the stars.
It is useless to be in hurry and to guess,
because there is no time to see
or to linger the whole life long
in order to get to know your face in the mirror.
Lilies, cement, those light blue eyes,
the clouds that wander by, the smell of a body,
the chair that receives the slanted afternoon light,
all the air that you drink, all laughter, any Sunday,
everything takes you, indifferent and fatal, to your death.