The more I age
the more heads I snip from the seven-
headed beast. And then I recognize him,
my intimate, my neighbor.
The more I age
the more I penetrate his secret.
I see death as an entrance
to a journey in reverse.
The more I age
the more I say: the beast is my friend.
No, there is no reason to curse,
poisoning this peacefulness.
The more I age
the more I feel myself a residue
in a desert where I flounder
among shadows of those absent.
The more I age
the more I learn to lose my fear.
All beasts grow tender.
Just take it to your breast.
Cabral, Astrid. “Seven-Headed Beast.” Trans. Alexis Levitin. Cage. Austin: Host Publications, 2008. p. 15.