They don’t get it, no.
You put your heart in their hands,
like a ripe fruit,
and they look at it like a stone
that’s just in the way.
Them, who live on leftovers—
on words tossed into the air,
on mechanical caresses,
on hollow promises.
Them, who fall asleep on the crumbs
others drop from the table,
and feel full,
and feel just fine.
You say to them: “Here, take my sun,
my time, my silence next to yours,
my hand when it gets cold,
my eyes for when it grows dark.”
And they step back
as if truly wanting burned.
As if love without a trick
were something obscene, something from another world,
something you can’t see or touch.
They prefer the familiar cave,
the lukewarm air that never changes,
the love that doesn’t hurt because it’s nothing.
And they walk around, gathering tinder,
content with their half-truth,
with their halfway deal,
with their daily stale bread.
And I, whose soul aches just watching them,
can only say:
what a pity, Lord,
what a pity of people.
So close to water and still thirsty.
So close to fire and still cold.
So close to loving well
and yet they run away
as if love were a fierce dog.
I have no riches,
no lands, no cattle,
but I have what they have too much of:
the will to be there, to listen,
not to let go of a trembling hand.
And they don’t.
They prefer the leftovers,
the tiny bit, the tasteless,
the thing that asks for nothing because it gives nothing.
So when I see them
walking down the narrow path
with their resigned little steps,
all I can say, with all my sadness, is:
what a pity, what a shame,
what a disgrace to live like that.
