Happy birthday to 65 years.
What does this Canadian birthday signify?
Nothing, really nothing.
Birthdays don’t mean anything anymore.
Birthdays have passed to indifference, boredom…
words that reek of absurdity’s hangover.
At most absurdity is funny…
a respite from boredom.
At least it’s meaningful.
Meaninglesness is too tragic
and it hurts of memories of the past.
There’s always a smile in absurdity.
Or a loud laugh.
Means so little.
Today is my birthday.
I will have been born tomorrow or next year.
And existence…is sweet?
When people make you happy.
And tragic when people make you…tragic.
Nada. Absolutamente nada.
Wake up and tell me what you see outside.
Snow, of course.
I’m too lazy to even get up and see the same slush.
Or maybe afraid that it wouldn’t be snow anymore
but some black, cold substance in its place.
But I’m almost sure there’s snow outside.
Together with the…sun?
And all sing “Happy Birthday! ”
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Comments about this poem (65 by Edmundo Farolan )
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