Hearing through silence,
no music is there,
maybe I'm sleepwalking,
anyway, who cares?
My body is turning
to stony rock,
untouched, unloved,
one thousand years old.
My breath slows down,
closer to stop,
still I'm breathing,
this is no dream at all.
My self is awake,
I died, pehaps,
still, unaware,
I watch life going by.
Fog reings all around,
neither colours, nor textures,
neither ocean, nor sparks.
I'm sure I'm not dead,
my mind, stubbornly, resists.
To know I'm still alive,
I'm writting this.
La Finita
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem