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Poetry

 

THE THIN PEOPLE

I say we are thin,
as a fly’s wing,
crushable to
tattered lace
in no time at all,

of course it is no sin
to be ninety-three -
but not an honour
either, simply an
act of grace, if so
you wish to see it …

to be in this
place where
air is cheap and
memory too much

a forgotten thing,
but none of it
matters really;
living, being, doing,
loving, dying even …

so, you ask,
what is important…
nothing?

Well, let me say
each day you
may laugh and
be curious -
for nothing…

deo volente!

 

 

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