It does not know it
It does not know it
It does not know it is this not that.
And, more and more often, agape,
With my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.
Just as long ago, when I was twenty,
But then there was a hope I would be everything,
Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.
Now I see dusty district
And a town where the postmaster gets drunk every
Melancholy with remaining identical to himself.
If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.
Were I at least not contradictory.
Alas.
