I hope for those people

With only three passions in life

Namely solitude, cheap coffee and even cheaper cigarettes,

There is a separate room in heaven,

Booked in advance and kept in order

Until their time comes and they get

Too tired to stand all of this.

 

I hope it’s always autumn there,

And they walk in their fields, being proud

Of the rich harvest

That they keep watching,

While walking to and fro,

With the no-filter cigarette stuck to their lower lip

And that two-dollar mug

That was never designed to be a part of any set,

But was to become a continuation of someone’s left hand.

 

I hope they are left there for eternity,

Alone and lonely, as they always dreamed,

With just occasional gusts of wind that raise in the air

Those dry leaves, as wrinkled as their face

Any time after they reached their fifties.

 

I hope that rich black soil,

Which is pressed with their shoes,

Twice mended and three times torn,

Becomes a home for the deep wide prints —

The only thing they manage to leave behind.

 

That same soil that buried

Hundreds of their buds

And dozens of their friends,

Those same people,

Who gave life an attitude

After they were chewed up and spat out,

Like a large sticky gob,

Going through the sinuses,

Showing that their time is up.

 

I hope they are not bothered there any more

With people’s comments, looks and expressions.

I hope they are finally happy there,

Perfectly sound and forever alive,

As sound and alive

As never before.