I can see you from where I am lying.
I am sorry to keep you there sitting,
Showing up at the same old second
Opposite our faithful railway station.
How come you know it is that time?
Patience up before the whistle blows,
In autumn skies with travelling smells,
It’s not even the same shapes of feet.
I heard you shivering under your snow,
You smelled a perfume but fell asleep.
You eat like someone who likes to live,
I think though it helps to keep waiting.
This was never anything strangers thought.
Insanity or ignorance or blindness or faith.
The scheduled punctuality of that absence
Was no roots for fear, anger or questioning.
You simply could not help just sitting there
Beneath the tree outside our train station,
A monk watching the door to his monastery
When aliens might see yet one more beggar.
You never read any of those sacred pages,
So your fervour stood in your quiet stance.
No tense muscles, brave thirst or wild hairs,
But the breath of an ocean by a still pilgrim.
Your faith before the day has made you old.
Your flesh past mine knows that we live once.
Your mind argues you are wasting eternity.
Your heart like mine knows that we love once.
If only the wind were less rude to you.
It could give you a hug on my account,
As I would do at the station every day,
Happy to see you happy to see me. Joy!
I can see you from where I am resting.
I am sorry to let you down there lying.
You starve, old and ill, your need to die.
You kneel but won’t bend till I resurrect.
❛Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux.❜
Le Mythe de Sisyphe - Albert Camus