Is it true that we have a predetermined number
of heart beats in our lifetime;
that, year after year, the date of our death
gets closer to that of our birth,
or does it work the other way around?
I love to watch how all the sheets of the calendar
fall, one after the other. They seep through time
and sink in the floor like tears in mud.
The pendulum of the clock on the wall
swings back and forth and cuts the meat of space
like a knife, but there is no blood at all.
Outside, the cherry blossoms for the first time this year.
White and pink – the colors of a new beginning.
And black and black, of course.
Time is what defines us.
And we live inside its flexible framework,
feeling the edges, tasting them, biting…
But right now I strike a match, hoping it will burn
slower than the darkness looming towards me.
But instead I light my cigarette, wait for
the darkness inside to get out.