by Manuel Iris
Forced to attend the drill
of our own extinction
we can affirm with absolute confidence
that our absence will fall upon the world
like fresh rain,
like a chord needed to set in motion
the symphony of the future.
One can be glad to see how quickly
the planet can heal
from the damage inflicted
by its human tenants:
in two weeks’ time without tourists
the canals of Venice are teeming with fish
A wild boar walks with its piglets through the streets of Rome.
The renewed purity of the air
in the town where the pandemic started
could now save the lives of thousands.
The sky, once again, belongs to
its rightful owners.
The sea—naturally
does not miss us
nor do the jungles, the desert,
the mountains or tundra.
The planet will continue to dance
without nostalgia.
No one will need Debussy.
The Guernica will feed
some wild goat, to then
be turned into fertilizer.
This is: turned into life.
The reader may excuse
that such a metamorphosis
does not seem so bad to me
since the subject, the terrible
human subject of that painting
will prove to be obsolete in that new,
primeval world.
Because no one can grieve
the loss of the reasons
to paint the Guernica.
Because there should be a celebration
for the miracle of all the beauty
that we never deserved.
March 18, 2020
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