WAITING FOR THE END OF HISTORY
This position isn't uncomfortable at all
to make me say things that press beyond
my own arteries, stock-still past life.
Possibly rough or harsh to the touch,
with dirty fingernails, they are made
of wood, iron or aluminum. It doesn't matter
to me, I like to touch them, with no other
skin than my closed eyes, to notice
the slight imperfections that come from
the factory, the first signs of decay.
Nevertheless, I envy the physical and
extinguishable life of these trinkets
with no apparent value, that display
no interest in eternity. Like the plastic
wrapping on furniture when you move.
This is precisely where my freedom lies.
Discovering hoarse voices coming through
radios that are running out of batteries,
studying the order of trash containers
before and after garbage trucks come by.
I have something other than willpower,
something alien, something foreign that comes
into play. I touch the nerves on dry leaves.
As if I found myself in a state to establish
limits, to force myself to make them up.
(Poem translated by D. Sam Abrams)
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