[G.'S CONSOLATION TO PAULINE] Poem by Manuel António Pina

"Those who, at the very end of life,
returned to their fortress,
now no longer have time
or space to offer death;
nor death to offer to themselves.
Seneca in his greenhouse, bleeding slowly away,
sprinkled himself upon his slaves
like a gift of righteous life.
Can one be wealthy and righteous, too? Yes.
But can death bear
witness to life?

For it is so difficult, Pauline, to die in a minor key,
without tragedy or explanations,
without searching uselessly to save
one's life
(since one's possessions remain in the hands of the executor),
so unnecessary to leave it written,
and even worse so well written:
‘Burn my corpse without any ceremony',
so disappointing, so disproportionate!

Others, less hopeless and more fearful,
watch the doctors with impatient eyes,
envying their splendid health and clean-shaved cheeks,
and for another day of life,
of slow and painful life,
would be ready to trade in
fifty years of wealth and righteousness.
Those seem to me, since I am
no philosopher,
much more solid, irrefutable.

It occurred to me yesterday
I hadn't seen the mail all week
and yet I'm neither happier nor unhappier for that;
happiness certainly doesn't depend on things like mail
or fear or desire,
it depends more, perhaps, at least for now,
on the certainty that one's papers are in order,
debts paid up,
the possibility of death still intact.
One of these days, if it makes sense,
I will write you about the discordant passion for
immortality.
It is late now, the killers
are already at my door.
Yours, Gallion."