This morning I woke up
thirteen minutes to eternity
as if I did not sleep at all.
Dead tired.

I was working through my sleep,
wandering around the cross-section
of my life-death.

Somebody next to me
was turning pages of the giant book,
the cover of which was like a sky.
Pages opening like wings of a white bird.
And like a feather, a line crossed the page—

The meaning of running is a flight.

I knew that from the time I was a kid
when the ball was flying through the field,
the flight was brought about by a fierce run.
But flying is not the objective—
it is just the means
to induct another state of soul.

On that thin plane
all our deeds are ciphered in letters of mysterious script.

I am reading the book further—

The objective of running is to be somebody.

And then someone hurriedly closes the book
and someone’s shadow
now wrestles with my soul.
And then all of a sudden,
very, very close a woman’s voice
filled with unearthly tenderness
utters:

The meaning of life is a question.
The meaning of death is the answer.

And suddenly light hits my eyes
and I recover my sight

and now holding my pen like a sword,
I am piercing this life’s
dark paper.