It is too late. It is too soon.
Too late to die,
too soon to be born.
To throw oneself into the rotten waters
to open lips and saps
to be born:
too late and too soon,
too here and too there!
He deserted the rooms
with windowpanes caressed by trees.
He went back to the river, looked
at the murky waters, swallower
of poor lives.
They write it to you, to you who only read
foliage at the height
of scraps of birds.
And the place to die and to be born meet.
(A little too soon, a little too late,
if you have the nerve to specify which.)