They say: one death refutes another death.
And so I stand and watch the poppies grow.
Pygmalion*
When you possess that which you would refuse
And never have the given-up bemoaned;
Or when you mourn the loss of what you used
To think was yours but hardly ever owned —
All this is vain, if, like Pygmalion,
Spending your days with the adored creation,
You wait to see how light ignites the stone —
But no god can liven your possession.
Paroles, Paroles*
Paroles, paroles… Is there a price to words,
Or their value is indeed invented
When scales are used to measure their worth
To give to someone as a gift or credit,
To which the weights are always other words?
Paroles, paroles… From underneath their face
A subject lurks, occasional and silent,
Escaping to the infinitives’ maze,
Abandoning the predicate’s confinement,
Confusing all superlatives in haste.
Paroles, paroles… My life is made of words
But now, taking off my famous smile,
I think: do you have really any worth,
So usual, wise, eternal, versatile,
Or are you always words, but mere words?
The Choice*
How can you prove that you’re not someone’s shade,
And all you have is no-one’s but yours,
That this past day has not been lived in vain,
And everything you’ve done has got some worth?