Growing old
with the flower sellers
in Martin Place.

This everyday our only thing
this everyday what happiness
this everyday
thinking of friends that are
going, against their will,
who rise to the occasion of
their illness, of their death,
matching it.
Death that is coming
in this everyday
sweetly, unseen in the light.

Growing old in these streets
gathering this knowledge one
does not want, one can not use,
a useless knowledge that
repeats itself.
The same ashen faces,
the same fear
voices over the telephone
talking of soups
in this everyday that continues
to unfold in our absence.