I often thought beginning again.
I would need at least an
easy tranquile afternoon or
a train arriving on
A mere carnal delight
of intimate theft would do.
A fioriture pick from Wilde's
words would do fine too.
Then again, I prefer forgetfulness or
chat with the next-door carpenter who's
passion for old alleys whispered sense,
and if dogs did not bark at night,
eternity would go unnoticed.
With all my due respect for miscalculations
who saved my life all too often, I have to admit:
I have been an ideal patient.
One thing bothered me though, a tiny detail.
I could not see my pipe in the mirror.
No, no, no. I'm not absurd. It is because of this magic
of words of no particular meaning, that
this paradox of a journey would have no value
if it was reality