Money hangs
on the walls.
You shouldn’t have died
if you wanted it.
That you have
earned it
dollar to dollar,
that’s what you
would have said.
Now it hangs
like a cascade
of soft colours.
A mirrored
hologram
that does not reflect
one’s own image.
Money
turns into
objects:
only that way
it comes
to life.
It plays
to retract
itself
on a die.
Fragile
like the dry leaves
on the street.
It plays
on the corner
where the wind
accumulate
the leaves.
Accumulates
the money
that hangs.
It’s not enough
to bring you back.
A Brief Life 