If I could live again my life,
In the next - I'll try,
- to make more mistakes,
I won't try to be so perfect,
Through the course of generations
men brought the night into being.
Mirrors are not more silent
nor the creeping dawn more secretive;
in the moonlight, you are that panther
we catch sight of from afar.
Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone
Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream?
Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried,
Almost for consolation, if the bygone period
It opens, the gate to the garden
with the docility of a page
Free of memory and of hope,
limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
When sorrow lays us low
for a second we are saved
by humble windfalls
of the mindfulness or memory:
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.