Weekend

Sadness comes to remind me of death.

The world after I am gone 

is the same world;

where the children are playing-

in the indifferent garden of eucalyptus trees-

and waiting to grow up and 

to go to a dance;

at the midnight's den.

Oh, where the butterflies will be sprouting-

Oh, where the brave will be weak at the knees-

Then, when the ambivalent sons and daughters

will be gulping down beer together 

at the end of a particularly hard time 

on the dance floor-

the wily trees will be falling over each other

and giggling, and whispering in vain,

“Will it, will make them immortal?”