I felt it chill my heart today
As I read that poem about the number three
That mentioned Plato and his nine-squared life:
Your death, man, isn’t far away.
You’ve spent your cube of three, and now
Another one begin with a sudden pause
As when the wasp arrests his sudden flight:
The glassy windows won’t allow
Escape to him, but just to see
How small he is, how hot the summer sun,
How all our life is only to extend
The moments we have left to be.
The violent wasp is then at peace
When he preys upon the peaceful sitting spider:
How long the moment when you took your life?
How slow the bullet to release?
Thanks, dear reader, should you ever find me, for pardoning a couple of days of writing instead of reading.