EPITAPH Poem by Nuno Júdice

The best died in epidemics: some
went by the plague, others by the flu
they called pneumonic, still others by
St Vitus's dance, leprosy or consumption,
the simple or galloping kind. This, when
they didn't put a gun to their head, hang
themselves from a street lamp, or jump into
the river. There were others who stopped
writing, who drank until they lost
their minds, or who simply quit
without explanation. As if life
depended on so little: a few
lines scribbled on scraps of paper,
phrases that might or might not rhyme,
thoughts . . . which they might have
kept to themselves. But when
I read them I understand their
despair. It's not every day
beauty appears to man;
perfection does not always seem
to be of this world. Yes:
I climb the steps to the top, from
where I can see the city in spite
of the stormy weather. What
is happening, right now, beneath
those rooftops? What subtler
epidemic has grounded those
who so recently dreamed of flying?