It’s always a battle
Between the angel and the devil
Between serenity and rustle
Between Vladimir, who lingers
In a crusade of choice and Estragon
Who laments every moment
Of yearning, like a camel in a dessert
Plagued by mirages.
And waiting for Godot
Is not a torment or a prudish choice
It is the sheer exclusiveness
Of a little passage of time when at the end, solitude
Musters enough courage to break
Open a little chamber called the human heart
To pick a cherry ripened with counter-longing
And an absolute need for percussion
Godot is a sacred place
Where music is made with an articulation
Of every note and all that rests in the journey
Is not a pilgrim’s tabernacle
But a cathedral of the flesh.
When prostration is only
An anthesis to bliss.
