Do I dare to make you immortal?
If I turn every person I’ve loved into ink
I won’t have time to invent new planets.
If I don’t invent new planets,
I won’t have anyone to take there.
I’ll throw clichés in passing, flower by flower,
my metaphors for just one honest feeling.
I’ll collect them, forever, because for a moment they make me alive.
I will write their names in black on the back of the book,
and then I will treat them like pressed flowers
which always attracted me along the roads of promiscuity.
And I’ll buy time by ripping them off the ground
until I dare to make you immortal.
In this way, I see repeated crimes
against common sense,
drunkenness in the sober state of mind,
as I break my fourth mirror today.
Another day, another cliché
who made a mess in the man
who’s allergic to inertia,
sensitive to flattery,
a game of truth or dare:
the actions of someone who’s okay with dying tomorrow,
if that means you’re not one of the clichés.
If I dare not to make you immortal…
No, I can’t turn you into a poem.
Then you are important.
Then you are the right one.
Do I dare to immortalize you?
No, I don’t.
Then you will be someone who cast a shadow on my flowers,
even though I forgot how long it smells,
but transient can also be liberating.
No, I won’t write about you.
I will not make you immortal.
(This doesn’t count).