Better reasons than life
there must be to live.
Better reasons than fear, loneliness,
and the love for everything that exists and your body and your lips.
Hidden in some fold of time and space,
of whole nature,
there must be some penultimate, hindmost reason,
that is barely heard among the bustle of a lost paradise
and highest hopes.
For how then those beings agrounded
on the edge of all that is remained,
voiceless of destinies and certain science,
can keep going beating with a persistence
resembling death.
How their light overshadows with that greedy
intensity of a dark hole devourer of worlds,
of words and dreams?
On the untouched edge of their boundaries
light and color are plunged as into a fathomless pit
that has lost their path among myriads of stars,
lonesome and errant.
Who has seen flourishing constellations and new
universes beyond the darkness of their black gulfs?
Who sank the eyes into the inscrutable weft
of their guts, creators of dust and ash?
Through days and years they pass by
as some unexplained, aimless boat
with no goal,
crossing the waters, forgotten about themselves, untouched,
beyond any storm.
Better reasons than life
there must be to live,
to reborn from fire despite the oblivion,
despite what was loved.
