20.11.2020.

 

You are like the poem that was lost among the papers

You pop up when least expected

To make me happy.

In the long run

All we try to do is keep the pace

In the ambivalence of an monastic trip

Or the life of a nomad.

But you know that in the end

That is all that you can get

Because there is always someone

Who does the talking

Or someone else who speaks through you.

 

I still have your smell in my hair,

And the clothes carry your perfume

And then wonder what it is

That make things happen.

 

I could partake in our erenity

If only you knew how I feel

And that I wanted an excuse to depart

But the moment was so brief.

 

You can hide behind the mask

With the absurdity of what you are

And the obscenity of a pandemic

But they would still know who you are.

 

We make parabolic someraults to eplain what we mean

And tell myths to become inscrutable

But the bad one will always reign.

To day was your birthday.

 

Alfred Grech

20/11/020.