I understand, without any regret,
that I am no longer
that I will never be
what, perhaps inexperience, we call young.
This that I was and that I am, and that somehow
I will continue to be:
my hands, my forehead, forearms, are
now drawn with folds that were not before
they existed. Between my eyes and the books, between the
world and my eyes have strained a couple of
glasses that will only take away my
last day. Jack Smith will never be
the name of a twentysomething, I no longer own
a young name He left forever
my blood that cauldron that burned
from eternity: today I know what yesterday I did not believe,
because believing is knowing. And I know today
unpostponable prognosis of my days:
death, the sweet death that awaits
my meat since I was a child.
And I know that I've left behind forever
the fear of leaving paradoxically that
It makes me temporarily immortal.
I won't be young anymore, it's the prize
for having lived