I search for the ripening remains of what were once desires,
Circling the place where I forgot some great event
Long ago, when my wings weren’t black.
The body lives but the soul is carrion.
In the Aztec eschaton
To reach their ultimate annihilation,
The dead must journey a hard journey
On the other side of the grave.
I pace that stony road before the furnace,
A dung beetle rolling his own corpse.
Not being is nothing to be concerned about:
There’s no bad weather in that abyss,
And lots of interesting company:
Heroes, philosophers, saints,
Achilles, Immanuel Kant, four-sided triangles,
Hopping and paddling through lakes of clover,
Things red and green all over,
Virtual particles in perpetual motion,
And even the edifying notion,
Which should end this lament.
All these things aren’t and will be my companions there,
But it’s the death I live that oppresses me.
Somebody forgot to turn the lights off.