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Poem

It was an ordinary funeral,
nothing striking—except the strange restraint of the living.
The coffin, made of somber wood, bore an inscription,
succinct, sincere, almost brutal:
In this world, no one takes anything away.
And just below,
like the advice of an old master to his absent-minded disciple:
Be humble, and thank even your enemies.
Take pleasure, as much as you can, in your passage.

I stood there,
mute, wordless,
my heart suspended at the edge of the abyss,
and I reflected.
On those days we treat as possessions,
as if time obeyed our will.
On those objects we hoard—
when we fear we might mean nothing.
On those grudges we nurture
like cherished treasures.
On that “tomorrow” we distrust,
on the tenderness we muzzle,
on the forgiveness we ration
as if it were scarce currency.
On the life we neglect
in the name of a later no clause has ever guaranteed.

But the hour comes—inevitably—
when all is left behind.
What we thought we owned fades into shadow.
What we managed to give might endure.
A hand extended.
A gentle memory lodged in another’s mind.
Life is not measured by rewards.
It is felt in the trace of sincere impulses.

So live with integrity, with heart.
Love without contract or condition.
Laugh even if the order of the world wavers.
Weep if your soul overflows with pain.
Forgive without expecting anything in return.
And above all,
do not postpone
what, today,
might make life vibrate.

For that evening will come
when the dawn no longer breaks.
And on that day,
no one—
I say it plain—
takes anything away.

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