In the twilight mystery,

engrossed in the vagueness of my prospects,

I ramble in man’s ephemeral thought:

At what point do things happen?

And how long is it now?

How do I stave off this awful event?

 

I need to figure out the meaning of life,

which makes all the difference between death

and the desperate desire to keep living,

between pain and pleasure,

between the superfluous and the irresistibly necessary.

 

Now I get it that I have wasted time,

there is no more lucidity in my thoughts,

the pusillanimity of their unhurriedness has stripped me to the bone

When will these thoughts stop petering out?

I will take care of the minutiae

I try to believe otherwise, for today is my last day.

 

I’m not sure about the time

How long has it been since I found out?

The clock’s ticking lets me in on it

I have little time

I can almost feel death laughing behind me

with the dawn of a job well done

however, the spark was kindled a couple of hours ago

my world began in the corner where everything is final, fabulous and fleeting: life!

 

In the middle of sobs, I write this:

I have little time, I know, for today is my last day.

…now that you’re here

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Kattia Ochoa, la autora de 'La Ruta del Despojo'
File Photo

Kattia Ochoa is a Colombian writer. My Last Day is the English translation of her debut poem, Hoy Moriré. Write to her at kattiamop20@hotmail.com to know more about her other published works.