MORE IS LESS

Every day we have more dead.

Or is it they who have us,

who tie us to the ground by our hair.

If we are cold, they shiver

and their thirst is quenched when we drink.

We are the shadow around the glass

and almost the hands that round the words.

They grab us by the nape. And that is how they breathe

into our ears. And we carried off by the siren’s song

never suspect that we are busy serving death.

Infested with fear: a letter, a murmur,

festive days, those places of sadness where one laughs for before.

And what if all this were the summary of our history?

What’s still to come is a time when dying is the least of our worries.

When one holds back in all one does. Some small extravagance

is still allowed, as if it were a final cigarette. Death is the sum total

of all the interest from the capital we’ve been denied.