If we mourned our birth, would we smile
at our funeral?
Look at us
standing in front of the blackboard,
diligently noting all the knick-knacks
that make up our daily routine.
Nothing but chalk dust.
We can’t even order ourselves some rain,
let alone find someone really nice
to listen to La Vie en Rose—no wonder
the soufflé is too soggy tonight.
If we mourned our birth, would we break
through the shrill screech of chalk?
I only chop onions when I’m blue, and it’s not a rainy day
to go for a walk without an umbrella. I am a man, after all,
even if no one expects me to keep up appearances anymore.
And I suppose belief in constellations was a hallmark of youth
until one night we looked up at the northern sky and realised
that even the closest stars were light years apart—without fear.
It is not about breakfast—or any other meal for that matter—eaten in solitude.
It’s not even about the freezing-cold bed you have to jump into after taking a hot shower.
The problem is in all those little glimpses of unexpected brightness you have no one to share with,
like when you exchange a curious glance with a mellow fox during an evening walk,
or when you make flatbread that smells of exotic spaces you recall your granny used to use,
or when you manage to sneak an ancient Greek profanity into an innocent-looking poem.
Weeping after all this without a hand with a handkerchief—that’s loneliness.
