It Is Time
I made a promise! I stop hating myself. Yes!
Anyways, that’s God’s job and of his forsaken
children. Why I got this thumb? For holding
the knife or lifting the club and beat my brother
down? For counting money or spreading the butter
on yesterday’s slices of bread? I made
a promise and I will stick to it. Do you hear me,
Onan and you too, Sisyphus? I will stop punishing
myself with alcohol and bad books, from now
on I am starting pleasing myself with words. Oh,
yes! This is my first poem. My reward is waiting for me
at the corner of the hungry typewriter and the stack
of empty leaves and I am here to claim it! It is time!
For poetry and for some astonishing beauty. Hey,
Time! My fearsome collar-scholar, it is time for you
to fall on your knees in front of these words. If you
don’t do it I will make you. Right, Horace? Yes, I know.
The darkness of blackness will miss me, but I have
to do it. There is no other way and there will never be. Now
and then. My path is clear. The crows of my lines are
circling the magnitude of my boiling words. But the battle
has just begun. The scarecrows of my bookish fields are
strangely still, the wind comes and goes. I prefer to listen
to the whisper of the clouds instead of some stupid
and banal babble of the bottle! Can you see the light over
there? Shining on the edge of the horizon? Well, I do!
Hence, the time has come! I am pouring myself the cup of
Dante and starting all over again. With nothing to lose!