Remainder Of A Life

If I were told: By evening you will die, so what will you do until then? I would look at my wristwatch, I'd drink a glass of juice, bite an apple, contemplate at length an ant that has found its food, then look at my wristwatch. There'd be time left to shave my beard and dive in a bath, obsess: "There must be an adornment for writing, so let it be a blue garment." I'd sit until noon alive at my desk but wouldn't see the trace of color in the words, white, white, white . . . I'd prepare my last lunch, pour wine in two glasses: one for me and one for the one who will come without appointment, then I'd take a nap between two dreams. But my snoring would wake me . . . so I'd look at my wristwatch: and there'd be time left for reading. I'd read a chapter in Dante and half of a mu'allaqah and see how my life goes from me to the others, but I wouldn't ask who would fill what's missing in it. That's it, then? That's it, that's it. Then what? Then I'd comb my hair and throw away the poem . . . this poem, in the trash, and put on the latest fashion in Italian shirts, parade myself in an entourage of Spanish violins, and walk to the grave!