As you start to grow old, and blind,
A secret, which you always half-knew,
Comes, as you’re half-asleep, to comfort you:
Oblivion, more than love, is kind.
Oblivion, more than love, knows your delicate mind.
Oblivion was the one who held your hand
When at five years old, you were blinded,
In the dream of a deathly fever.
It was nothing. But it would understand
By having no desire to understand.
When you left, thinking about something else,
Thinking about many things, vainly,
Oblivion would be standing there.
When you passionately chose another path,
Oblivion dug the grave for every tender care.
A book, an author, a collection, now on oblivion’s shelf,
Full and ripe for reading, stacked by oblivion,
Reveals, above this poem’s grave,
The wonder you tried to know and hold.
Oblivion was what you truly loved.
And this thought comes to you,
Happy now—as you start to grow old.