MOTION
Sooner or later,
faster or slower
before or after,
with gray hair on your head or maybe at puberty,
You will think of death.
Not in the abstract death of things,
nor in the Buddhist death of the ego,
not even in the death of your parents or loved ones.
One day, when you least expect it.
You will think about your death.
Pandemics will pass with their thousands of deaths.
New and bloody wars will come that will devastate the earth sowing
misery,
with misery sorrows will arise,
with the sorrows of others, humanity,
It will think of his own death.
Days go by, weeks go by, years slip by.
The clock of mortality presses hard on the brains,
every night, in unbearable silence.
You will be angry, you will not understand the cruelty of life,
much less the mystery of death.
It will be that when dying all the illusions vanish,
the dance of life stops.
Every atom, every cell, every grain of sand, will rest stiff:
in the middle of the big city
or the lonely desert field.
One day you will think of your death,
coiled between sheets of anguish,
between torments of introspection.
One day your anger will face death, and then,
you will have to choose:
Die or give movement to the wheel of your own existence.
