A man doesn't have time in his life |
to have time for everything.
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He doesn't have seasons enough to have
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a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
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Was wrong about that.
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A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
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to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
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with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
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to make love in war and war in love.
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And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
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to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
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what history
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takes years and years to do.
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A man doesn't have time.
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When he loses he seeks, when he finds
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he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
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he begins to forget.
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And his soul is seasoned, his soul
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is very professional.
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Only his body remains forever
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an amateur. It tries and it misses,
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gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
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drunk and blind in its pleasures
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and its pains.
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He will die as figs die in autumn,
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Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
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the leaves growing dry on the ground,
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the bare branches pointing to the place
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where there's time for everything.
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