How old
must I become
to return to the selfless
heaviness of the rock

has not the wind
that levels the tiny
sands of time
swept over
the last corner
of my life

must I continue
to stare
at the leaves
that shiver
purposelessly
on the sunlit tree

must I continue
to desist action
below the shadow
of a pigeon
that springs to flight

must the city
become soft
as the pages
of history
that I keep on
forgetting

how old must this
memory become
to fall silent at last
as the man behind
the mirror

how   old

Existential Poetry