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Antony Micallef. “Guardian With Beasts”.

I committed the invective of neglect,
I defamed the glory and the unfulfilled dreams,
because better is to adapt
the notions to things than burn yourself up
inside until the ashes
of the inert.
Nothing I wore with such elegance
as this suit of cynicism
well fitted
to the inquisitorial feast
of mutatis mutandis
and progressus regressus
and all its frills
of Latinisms with a philosophical-existential
whiff
that any whatsapp chain
would wish.
In the end it was just this redundant
resonance gasping
at the edge of a life
shimmering of love and smiles,
of open arms waiting
at the other side of every instant,
with devoted integrity,
so that the beast stops going around
over itself
and can remember the names,
the places, the moments,
the tastes lied
on a table where laughs
covered the day by day
details for the upcoming days,
and a tomorrow that always
saved the echoes most promising of what could have been.

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