Future

A few books - read and unread
(which these days I don’t have any problems in keeping with old shoes)

chapters which I never understood,
chapters which I will never understand,
parents who are getting old faster than ever,
gossamers on which hangs the nameless bourgeoisie spiders.

Nothing else.

Oh yes.

Perhaps there are also the new lies that I have invented
to hold on to until the advent of the good silence.

My old parents

My old parents -
They are like children.

They believe that I find happiness
in early mornings

and their changeless suns.

They believe that I find happiness
in the books that I read,
the writers of which themselves probably never knew happiness.

They believe that I am happy when I fall in love,
when I find pleasure in women I don't love,
when I drink a glass of gin.

They believe that I am happy about future,
about hope, about life, about the taste of mangoes.

It seems that they believe that I have somehow learned to be happy;
I am sure they cannot remember teaching it to me.

I laugh and pretend a lot
though I don’t have to take much pain

because to deceive one’s parents is very easy
for they are very credulous -
like children.

But then, maybe they are right,
maybe while I write these lines and while I feign happiness I am happy

and maybe this is the happiest I can ever be.