Lost poem 164

Give thanks
for every hour
that passes
for being
still
alive
to feel the Earth
spinning
under our feet
Because it spins
even if
like with
everything else
we forget about it

The burden of giving thanks
is sometimes
overwhelming
Like the loneliness
in the summer
in Paris

There are several
“Impasse de la Liberté”
And yet, we must
recognize them
to honor them
like so many
nightmares
of our sleepless nights

Above all, absolutely nothing
Above all, everything else
the thoughts
that hold us back
sometimes
often
from accepting
a compliment
a thank you
and fills our souls with
an ocean
of distress
of panic
of gratitude
of strangeness

Wanting to be an equinox
or a midday sky
to finally know what time it is
and the weather of our hearts
How many lies
have we forced ourselves to say
in public
after someone asks
“How are you?”
We don’t dictate
the sharing of the intimate
in a society that is doing well
and which separates the beautiful
from what is frightening of Truth

Deep down
we are seekers of enigmas
of mysteries
who want the ephemeral
because we know
that we already have
Eternity
and feel like strangers to it