RIC S. BASTASA

sometimes, when i stand waiting for someone who does not come
i whistle

for death, as though it is a friend and i am the willing one to go with it in its new journey hoping that perhaps i may like it

finally, when i do not have to go back and retrace my origin and then regret,

and death hears it and comes to me and asks me if i am going with him
to an escapade,

an adventure,

for death is an escape,
a closing of a door,
a making of a wall,
a locking of a window,
a stopping of a noise of an engine
on the street,


and when death is nearer, i begin to fear and ask myself,

what shall happen next?

and i deny i whistled for it, and i assure it that it is simply a mistake, a wrong call,
a slip of my tongue

and death believes me,

for death is a respecter of our own misfortune,

our errors, our negligence and even pretensions,
a keeper sometimes of our own lies,



and death leaves me, and i have sighs, i doubt what i really want,

and sadly, i wish i had told it the truth.