No one lives his life.
Disguised since childhood,
haphazardly assembled
from voices and fears and little pleasures,
we come of age as masks.
Our true face never speaks.

Somewhere there must be storehouses
where all these lives are laid away
like suits of armor or old carriages
or clothes hanging limply on the walls.
Maybe all the paths lead there,
to the repository of unlived things.

And yet, null,
though you and I struggle
against the deathly clutch of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:
All life is being lived.

Who is living it, then?

Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?
Is it the winds blowing over the waters?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?
Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances,
or streets, as they wind through time?
Is it the animals, moving,
or the birds, that suddenly rise up?

Who lives it, then?

You, oh God? Is it you, God, who lives it?

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