When I die, reaching heaven
Saint Peter won’t close the gate on me.
Here you are – he’ll say with wide eyes,
Consulting his notes
hmm… well, you were no saint I see,
in fact, you’ve stumbled quite a few times;
sins, some unconfessable
some acts unworthy of mention;
A coward on many occasions, lewd
An accustomed and habitual liar,
Not in the least bit pious…
And only a hint of sobriety!
He will consult the stars,
talk to his superiors and,
after a lengthy twiddling of his beard,
he will conclude:
Go on, enter, for all you have endured,
and for your many good intentions,
rarely ever taken seriously.
your merits are few, but we are
up to date with condescension.
And I enter.
My mouth dry, tongue scraping.
I turn the first corner, reflections I have never seen,
I walk up to a small establishment –
Semi-obscurity and familiar smells –
I am presented a tall frosty glass of beer:
the beginning of endless delight.
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