Death has always eaten the same meal
At the same table, in that exclusive restaurant
Before I get there; hungry, misinformed
He has always left with the prize
Just as I was realizing: this one can change
My life, take me farther than I've ever-
But no, there walks death sedately,
A hundred paces ahead,
There goes the last chance
I never had, always too late and just far enough behind
I had to leave the womb at a trot;
Born too late, and I've been running since
There were few enough times
I even knew what I was hurrying toward
But then I glimpse him ahead of me, in his billowing cape
And that ridiculous Death's mask, cutting a sinuous swath
Out of the very center that the world wheels around:
Death always cuts his piece from the hub
And then laughs at you over his shoulder
As he leaves the party in ruins.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem