POSTSCRIPT Poem by Jorge de Sena

I'm not one of those whose bones are kept,
nor am I even one the future will lament
not having saved in time to still be bones.

Moreover I'm not one who'll be a standard
in contests of blood or even words,
by some hated as much as others may love me.

I'm not even one of those enchanting voices,
whispering to the lonely youth in shadows,
of some vague beauty that perchance is in his dreams.

Nor will I even be a consolation to the sad,
to the humiliated or those who boil with rage
at an entire life bit by bit betrayed.

No, I'll not be anything of what remains or is useful,
and I'll die, when I die, with me.

Only very timidly, in the empty hours, will he read me,
in disguise from everyone and from himse1f,
curious, that fellow who dares suspect
how truly poetry is still a disguise for life.