I am always opening the locket
in myself.
It was not always so.
I don’t know where or when
I finished one life
and started another.
An artist will reach the borders
of his picture,
and that’s where it ends.
The roads fall off the edge.
The people sit still.
The flowers never go away,
and table and chairs remain,
empty or full,
but always the same.
But I never know where I am.
Why one day I cry,
and the next,
smile as if grief were a stranger.
And the poems just fall to the floor.
Some never finished,
like leaves,
torn and full of color.
Nothing complete,
as if completeness will never
belong to me.
As if life goes on,
never meant to be finished,
but one moment,
disappears, and never returns.
As if I never existed,
as if all my beloved never existed.
Is there a secret inside me?
Is that what I go to?
The ultimate riddle,
enigma,
and then,
as if my life never were,
it ends,
locked inside without a key?