And there is nothing to say

I don't know if this poem is necessary

which is often the question when we call upon words

But now early morning it is

and the heron flies towards my sunset

and it is the time when

the nurse, poor soul

comes into a room a thousand times and croaks

“Good morning”

with poor breakfast and colorful pills

which is the daily ruin of a good morning

for a thousand of old souls

breathing the air of a coffin of a room now

unable to die and pass the threshold in dignity

and there is nothing to say

And from my campsite vista

overlooking the perfect mirror of the lake

I will soon see the pensionists

climbing painstakingly out of their motorhomes

in daily routine to unroll sun-sails and newspapers

and stare absently into coffees

and she will bring the plates and pills and he will cut the bread

and there is nothing to say

And then there later on that lake

another kind of aged folk

will enter their yachts for good in white garment

and wistful tanned age-stained skin

aimlessly sailing towards white wine and entrecote and pills

and there is nothing to say

So what I say nevertheless

if necessary or not

is: I might talk about your ancestors

and I dare to wonder about the essence of dignity

or absence

hovering over all these pre-death coffins

and it hurts but

maybe you already got a pill against all this

so... there would be nothing to say