I was here.
That's enough for me.
I won't ask for last
minute ointments
to cross the final dissolution line.
No one will hold my hand
from the other side.
An unnamed shadow, maybe,
from a time already lost
could show up then,
a stuck memory,
a fulminant
remembrance tangled
into the minute
of the crucial synapse.
I was here
and I was filled by the moonscape
of my roots,
and a sky
tightened by shiny
stings
pierced my eyes
with the wonder
and rendezvous.
Here I keep the hugs
and voices,
here the sweet
wounds that never heal,
that throb murmuring
and bearable.
No hand sprained
my neck, or burned
my flesh till the agony.
The butcher didn't put
his knife against my throat,
or trod upon my temples nor my mouth.
What else?
The kisses, the caresses,
the glances, the songs
and the short staying under this roof.
No rowboat will take me
to no unknown sea.
I will embrace, in a last sigh,
a single certainty,
as a flower opening
to provide its endless scent:
I was here,
I was here.
That's enough for me.
