Ewigkeit

I turn in my mouth the Castilian verse that says what always tends to be said since the Latin of Seneca: horrendous dictum that all we are is food for worms. Let the pale ashes return to chant the tales of death and of a victory for that rhetorical queen who steps on our standard banners, our empty glory. Not so. Whatsoever has blessed this hide I’m not going to deny like a coward. I know that one thing is not: oblivion. I know that in eternity it all lasts and burns—the much and the precious that I’ve lost: this forge of mine, that moon, this afternoon.