sun coming down
no one is sorry I am leaving,
not even I;
but there should be a minstrel
or at least a glass of wine.
bothers the young most, I think:
an unviolent slow death.
still it makes any man dream;
you wish for an old sailing ship,
the white salt-crusted sail
and the sea shaking out hints of immortality.
sea in the nose
sea in the hair
sea in the marrow, in the eyes
and yes, there in the chest.
will we miss
the love of a woman or music or food
or the gambol of the great mad muscled
horse, kicking clods and destinies
high and away
in just one moment of the sun coming down?
but now it’s my turn
and there’s no majesty in it
because there was no majesty
before it
and each of us, like worms bitten out of apples,
deserves no reprieve.
death enters my mouth
and snakes along my teeth
and I wonder if I am frightened of
this voiceless, unsorrowful dying that is
like the drying of a rose?
Autres oeuvres par Charles Bukowski...
