Leave me stranded in a smoggy city,
away from the Tropic sun,
out of reach of fame and wealth,
building, twig by twig, antlike,
our humble abode, and I
will be utterly happy.
Strip me of vain ambitions
of artistic transcendence,
and limit me to a peasant’s life,
by your side, and I will hold it
dearer than a mil masterpieces.
For when death is at the shore
and we settle our debts with ourselves,
our vainglorious goals are worth nil,
and all we worked for to avoid
the inevitable end, sightseeing
through life, instead of staring it
directly in the face, its ugly
unavoidably decrepit face,
then happiness will be out of reach,
and all we’ll have left
will be our hollow achievements.