From a Book of Weaknesses

Gigantic agenda, this life of ours—

that turned out so different, then after all the same.

We picture ourselves when we close our eyes

in a lift that's counting the years in floors.

Often one of us gets out mid-way, walks along the corridor,

towards himself, his own doppelganger.

The half of it is stumbling, knocking on the wrong door,

the one with the painted-on heart. And then—

this collapsing with fatigue, the relief.

Day after day another petal falls

from the crazy bouquet that only yesterday

almost made the vase explode with its splendour. 

Blue hydrangea, wood anemone, black tulip—

Sounds like some kind of improvisation:

exercises for a toy piano—unbound lines of verse.

And this unboundedness means we're dying

imperceptibly, and suddenly we are glad

to live as if we were immortal,

while writing stems the flow, and

every single word is crucial. So now begin:

Write a book of your daily weaknesses.