Sunday, February 2, 2020

Irene Mercedes Aguirre


Indifferent time slipping away, 
anguish of the life that it imprisons 
with the crucial sickle of the last turn, 
summons us urgently, leads us 
to choose the optimal path 
from all those possible. To discern.

Though our existence seems like honey 
with its broad spectrum of joys 
tries to protect us under its shelter, 
a sort of sixth sense warns us  
against taking the beaten track 
and to rekindle our feeble light.

That avowed lamp of the mind, 
like a reckless vandal beckons 
and assaults our being as it lights us. 
Sacred possible altar, never absent, 
invites us to sow its seeds, 
in virgin earth unknown to us.
What to do? Turn our back? Look away? 
Ignore what is possible, disregard 
the beacon in the solitary immensity? 
Or keep on trying, fencing in 
the noble thought that is glimpsed 
through the darkness of the day?

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