Old liar, death, do you think I don’t see you?
There is not one of your masks I don’t know,
even this one, soft and winning the half-truth.
When the fruit in its bowl turns green I see you, death.
When a sleep-walker hears the clock hands unwind,
when a hand jerks back from a reaching hand.
Even in the motion of rest I touch your face.
I know its shape in love, and in the wit of madness.
I will face up to you, my sleepy lover.
I will fight you with nuance and with clearness,
with the making and breaking of form and measure,
with a greedy face and with an immaculate.
I will lie with clocks, which are always a little late,
I will lie with madness, with the fact that you love me,
and for a long time you will believe me.
Leave a Reply