Dull words, useless silences. Sometimes, the rustling of the wind seems to want to tell stories. Elderly, exhausted by arthritis, he still thinks he can tell wisdom and talks about the past, hunger, misery, war, and truce. He speaks only richly of his miserable paucity. How useless is it to be old?
How extra it is to have visited the world — to have eaten from a big pot, to have cut a cigarette in two! How useless is all this experience if, then, at every moment, we find ourselves back where we started? If the wise man is only the one who knows, he does not know. Instead of staring at his god-like hands, he too often joins only to pray.
May prayers die before my body of a man! And do not even try to cry over the coffin, for it is empty! The dead are for the foolish so they can waste their breath on Nov. 2. For me, it remains the long, immense night, which only mocks the years. Pray for the dogs! They need it more!
My mother wanted to become a nun.
In the end, who knows why, she chose to be profane.
Perhaps she no longer found the calling;
perhaps reread better those texts that were so inhuman,
Or perhaps, maybe, the law of boredom
Trumped her far more than the dull laments
Of an old sexless priest,
ended up in the seminary only due to extreme poverty.
My mother wanted to become a nun,
And in the registry of heaven,
my name was never in alphabetical order,
like when in the sixth grade,
Added later to the top class,
All, unaware of that wrong,
asked me in amazement,
why Z came before B.
And I,
pretended to ignore it.
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