He was writing about his cancer And writing through cancer, Self-pity Turned into a kind of strength Revealed through self-pity, If this makes sense; In particular I remember the piece about A beautiful widow Coming to the grave with a long-legged girl, Both in black dresses. Under the earth Covered with red and yellow leaves The author visualized himself. Writing it He was crying You could tell It is almost as if The paper Bulged with the traces of his tears Here and there And I wish I Had not this picture Of the imaginable grave in mind For some reason, Although It is good to have everything that was dispersed In the solidity once again, All the forgotten texts reread, and All the dead resurrected, And the planet In all endless succession of moments Reinstalled in reality somehow Maybe except for that particular moment When he was writing and crying On that stupid grave.
Posted on: Mon, 23 Sep 2013 05:42:52 +0000
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