DESTINY

We kill that which we love. The rest
was never alive.
No one is as close to us. No other is so hurt
by forgetfulness, an absence, a mere nothing.
We kill that which we love. An end to the asphyxia
of breathing with another’s lungs!
The air isn’t sufficient
for the two of us, nor the earth
for our bodies entwined.
The dose of hope is small
and sorrow cannot be shared.

Man is made of solitudes,
a deer in flight, bleeding,
its loins pierced by an arrow.

Ah, but hatred
its insomniac fixity of glass:
repose and menace combined.

The deer inclines its head to drink,
discovers a tiger’s image in the water.
The deer drinks the water and its image. It becomes
(before it is devoured —astonished accomplice—)
equal to its enemy.

We give life only to what we hate.