Choosing the Key

There is too little time to play with pebbles
and compose stories. The day is too short,
and when you hesitate and act cowardly,
time is the hangman who scorns you. And you
linger on and you are like a dog
run over by a car and cautiously crossing the street now,
you linger on, biting your lips and
coming always too late, like a guest from abroad,
always like a guest who takes the wrong key
and sits down at the wrong table.
Everything must be fought for. There is too little time for that.
To feel, just feel the circle closing in
and you are not a captive, you walk
its circumference and see the abysses and mountains,
you see all the seasons of the year still preparing
their exam questions; to feel, just feel
and wait for the fluttering of birds’ wings
like a loud applause for life.