ALIVE
At the hour when the world ceases to be
you will be sitting under a plane-tree half unleafed
on a lively, noisy avenue
nothing around you will have really changed
you will still be father, son and lover
a dream will nag you like a bit of food lodged between two teeth
you will go on watching children, cyclists, dogs
asking yourself what love is
if you found it, lost it, or if it always escaped you
examining memories attentively
with an entomologist’s precision, who, bent over an insect,
now sees only reticular surfaces
forgetting the creature caught in a fog-drowned park
you will think of the fruits in season, of buying a new pair of shoes
of the page you read this morning in the bathtub
of the windowpanes next door lit up as if on fire
which you watched for a long time last night before going to bed
at the hour when the world ceases to be
you’ll do sums, review hypotheses
formulated a thousand times
summon up the solutions
then you’ll get up, distractedly push two or three leaves aside with your foot
you’ll move away towards nothingness
your back turned on nothingness
so alive
