They say we all breathe deeply the same air.
Are we or are we not the children of the same life?
Somewhere far away, where even snails carry their burden with pride,
a fossil Sun is shining for the dead as well.
If what we can’t see, can’t hear and can’t feel does not exist,
the astral explosions,
the galaxies lost beyond the horizon
and the fever of lovers who are being consumed by nothing at all
don’t exist either.
We all carry our past like tired snails,
by ourselves or in pairs, we hold hands or hold our breath,
we immerse in a deep silence or breathe a sigh of relief,
we fight hard for what we could easily gain
if we really understood what they say.

Staring into empty space, staring above.
Everything that is sunset is sunrise and sunset once again,
a sequence which we make no effort to imagine
other than fragmentarily.
What could be worse than to obsessively think of the beginning?
What could bring us to a halt better than the burden of lost time?