I never laugh
about death.
It simply
happens that
I am not
afraid
to die
among
trees and birds.
I don’t laugh about death.
But sometimes I get so thirsty
that I ask something from life.
Sometimes I get thirsty and I ask questions
every day, and what happens is
I get no answers
except a deep and dark
belly laugh. Like I say, I’m not in the habit
of laughing about death,
but even so, I know her white
face, her morbid clothes.
I don’t laugh about death.
And yet I know her white house,
I know her white clothes,
I know her dampness and her silence.
It’s true, of course, that death
hasn’t visited me yet.
So you people will ask: In that case
what exactly do you know?
I don’t know anything.
And that’s true too.
And yet, I know that when she comes
I will be waiting for her.
I’ll be waiting for her on foot
or maybe while having breakfast.
I will look at her blandly
(she won’t scare me)
and since I have never laughed
at her costume, I will accompany her
all alone. All alone.
