METEMPSYCHOSIS Poem by Juan Cristóbal Romero

Already I'm thirty-eight and in the race
against time, I've left far behind the others
who were me, the previous occupants
of this now-wrinkled face.

Gone is the child who had a turtle,
gone is the feverish teenager,
the conceited lover and several others.
Today the father was bitten by the caterpillar.

How can I call these deceased ones a life,
those who inhabited my flesh. Yesterday awake,
today they defend themselves half asleep.

Such a short trip for so many ports;
if to die is both oblivion and a dream,
life is a succession of remains.