I used to imagine myself
As a young fox
Sleeping in a hole,
A small fenditure in the ground,
Perhaps under an old oak tree
Or maybe below the *****
Of a time-consumed hill.

That picturing of my fox-self
In his narrow hole
Always made me feel
Safe, secure and protected.
Even when the rain and the wind
Howled before my narrow refuge,
I could just lie there and be well.

But I am now enough strong
And enough content
Of myself and my life
To imagine myself
As a new kind of fox.
I am a young, proud fox,
Making my way into the world,
Smiling with a foxy grin
In face of everything.
I am strong,
I am cunning,
I am curious
And that's something
To be proud of.

I can jump,
I can run,
I can fight
I can live
Every moment
Feeling alright
And at home in the world.

I used to picture myself
As a young fox
In a small fenditure in the ground,
Seeking a warm and safe place
To rest and sleep.
But I now think that
I can be something different,
Something new:
I am now a different kind of fox.

So, I still lie in my narrow hole,
The one under the old oak
Or maybe the time-consumed *****,
Sleeping,
But I do it with
A new sense of self
And a sardonic grin
On my foxy face.

Some of the people
Who scorn at truth,
Meaning and values
Are similar to Aesop's Fox.

They imagine the grape
Hanging so high
That no one can reach it,
So that they can feel like
It is not worth struggling
To achieve it.

But then they become hungry.
And they die of starvation.

I have been like a blacksmith
Who forges only swords,
Sharp blades of war axes
Or heavy hammers
With flanged points.

Such were my arguments,
They were my thoughts,
They were my weapons,
They were my defenses,
The aggressive growl
Of a defensive animal.

I had plenty of resources,
To do whatever I wanted,
I could put my mind
On my most cherished themes.
But I didn't.
For I was a blacksmith
Forging weapons in a war.

I felt the urge of defending myself
From what could hurt
My soft inner-self.
So vulnerable,
Building defenses,
Fighting with courage
And strength.
I know
I am not vulnerable anymore.

Still, sometimes, there is a call to arms.
Or something that feels so.
Still, sometimes, I feel that urge.
To arm myself against a threat,
That maybe it's not even there.
I look at my molten metal,
And I imagine all the weapons
That I could craft.

But from now on,
I won't.
I look at all those metal,
All those would-be weapons
In my skilled hands.
And I think differently.
I can make so much more
With those materials and these skills.
I can be an artist, not a blacksmith.
I can be a statue of a horse out of bronze.
A bronze statue.
A bronze horse.

Yes, that would be wonderful!
So wonderful would it be to craft something
Out of love, or beauty, or interest or passion.
So different than building walls to defend you
And weapons to arm yourself.
So much more serenity in the process,
So much more satisfaction in the end.

And so, now I will built weapons no more.
I will build the bronze horses,
Or any other thing
That will make me yearn for something beautiful.

Life is a game
An odd one,
Elastic rules,
Different editions,
Some slight variations
Here and there
In packaging and content.

It is a game
In which nobody wins
And nobody loses
But everyone
Is nonetheless a player.

Yeah, you have
To think of life as a game:
Nor because it is always fun
Or because you can
Score some points.
Forget the scores, forget the rules.
Those are the ways
To try to stop playing.

But life is a game
That you can play
Observing what happens to you
And push yourself
A bit further
Than you were before.
Try not to be ahead of others
Or ahead of your time
Or ahead of whatever
Someone thinks you should accomplish:
Be ahead of yourself
From time to time
You will find yourself
A better player
At your own game.

I do not think
That this world
Is the best
Of all those possible.
It would be
A bit of a disappointment,
Wouldn't it?

I do not think
That this world
Is so bad
That a slightly worse world
Wouldn't even exist.
It would be an exercise
In masochism
Just to think of it.

I do not even think
Of this world
As a world
In a world of many worlds.
I am not a fan
Of metaphysics in disguise.

What do I think
Is that this world
Is the only one
We have.
This is the only world
We ever had.
Thousands of people
Lived in such a world,
Some of them
Were happy,
Some other were not.
Some people
Lived a pleasant life,
Other people had to fight
Against hurdles and struggles.
But they all lived here,
In this world.

So, please, stop.
Stop telling us
That this world
Is the best
Or the worst
Or at least bad,
Maybe capable
Of improvement.
This world just is.
And so do we.
Let's try to just live
And let the world
As it is.

Always behave according
To this maxim:
Think of a young child,
Feeling alone and scared
In the world
And in need of love.
The behavior
That benefits him
Is the best
For all of mankind.

Words are wonderful.
They can make you
Click with the world
They describe.
They connect.
They define.
They distinguish.

But those precious toys
Are much more than this:
They can imagine,
They can shape your mind,
They can communicate,
They can convey emotions, feelings.
Every little shade of your soul
Can have a word to express it.

But sometimes people do not think
About those strange tools.
And so words lose meaning.
And so they do harm.
And so they divide people.
And so they are removed
From the ever-flowing flux of life
And turned into
Political artifacts
Religious dogmas,
Or prescriptions
Of an ambitious moral system.
When this happens
Something in the wonder of words
Is lost.

What's that missing miracle?
What's the cause
Of that Fall
Of language?
Life is the answer.
That's what missing.
That's the ever flowing source
Of words themselves.

When you remove them
From their natural place,
They die
Like flowers in a dark room.
Meaning is lessened,
The world do not click.
You give meaning to meaninglessness
And you can not
Give meaning
To what meaningless is not.
Triviality seems meaningful,
While meaningfulness seems not.

But when everything runs
In the right way,
Wonder flows from every corner
And the world seems very much
Like an open book.