Life

a poem by Roger B Rueda

What drives it? Is it its end that drives it,
the imprint that defines it
after it's long gone,
its impact on this civilisation,
though it’s barely a fleck?
Or is it nature,
nature makes well and nature drives,
as we know?
Or is it to go behind the signs?
The signs, to some of us, are our lot and idea,
we know that after every sign,
we will have the chance
to take a bit from the world
and also give a bit to the world.
We always go after the signs,
perceptibly:
they go in front of us to our creator.
We trust in our signs and, thus,
we trust in ourselves.
One day we’ll be so close
to our intention
that we’ll have the get-up-and-go
to make thousands of people
feel providential and at ease,
and we’ll have so much love
to give
that we’ll be in this world for others:
that is the only life worth to live.
The next good morning
of each beautiful day
is our vigour of life.
Or does it seem to be transformed
to keep us wide awake
and make our life feel out
of the everyday
and lifting enough?
I´m not clear in my mind
if that is fine!
We just need to rock the boat!
Is it that we want to live
as we know our loved ones
want to see us live to tell the tale?