Second Death
Between our physical demise—when the soul, like a saved
page from a trashed notebook, lifts in the hand
of its maker—and endless fate judgement decrees,
there is a pause of ample brevity
which we might call the Second Life.
Still freighted with its abacus of doubts
as with the harvest of its deeds, counseled
by groped guesses, unready for the nearing light,
this novel ghost, fresh unsilked from flesh,
will hope its vapid hover will be all
that needs experiencing. Those lies
that sharpened the gnaw of passion’s blade,
those daily thefts gathered into haul,
those refusals to sacrifice triumph for verity,
those mirrorless comforts and swallowed questions
are suddenly not forgotten as the bright tongues
order him to settle in and embrace
his fuel destiny—just, inescapable, simple.
—Ricardo Pau-Llosa
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