A tale
before
a grave
by António Dinis Lopes
Preliminary notes
Fernando Pessoa could write during his depressions.
Emily Dickinson could write under pain or during the intermissions of it.
Why shouldn’t I try then from my temporary illness?
Triumvirate.
Triptychos.
Trinity.
The outburst of a person who needs to save energy is usually short and compact.
Any crocodile, any snake demonstrates that in nature.
Natural is us thinking of nature.
________ + ________
I am sick when I don't care about the others.
In health I can detect such sickness with a few questions.
It too can be perceived by contrast.
* * *
Winter will be the season of my death.
Unpraisable fools will tell you which winter.
Even more base fools will wish it is not the next.
* * *
I remind you that the tune for my funeral is Bregovic’s “Tale V”.
You cannot afford the band to perform it.
Bring a green mp3 player.
* * *
This faint spark cannot light this house.
Cannot light this room.
But look again through my eyes.
* * *
Bring me a priest as I want to confess.
That I need no priest.
That there is no rest.
* * *
Give me a moment to recover.
To put an overcoat on my skin.
My skin on a recent lover.
* * *
This is my grave’s inscription.
It is still unwritten as the line below.
* * *
I’ve donated my headstone to build a school.
Donated my organs to science.
And bought some wood for my funeral pyre.
* * *
The father.
The son.
A Spirit with no Mother.
* * *
Hush.
You talk too much.
We listen not immensely.
* * *
Cry later in Spring.
A drop of salt.
My portrait.
* * *
I sing when the birds are quiet.
You call it silence.
Above me a remote duet.
* * *
Breton.
‘Oui.’
Where is Nadja.
* * *
I miss nothing here.
Not even a line.
No.
* * *
You were born to great deeds.
Including mourning me.
At night too.
* * *
Wilde.
‘Yes.’
A cigarette.
* * *
Come to understand.
Close your lids.
Shut the < I > of life.
________ + ________
