The time machine

I am somewhere where I can't be rescued,
not by me or any superhero, underdog, or lover.
When numbers are kings of your repertoire
and the lyrics of the dusty tango, hit you
there's nowhere to turn to. Veinte años no son nada.
All the mighty achievements of your lost youth
are not written or remembered
by the flights of birds that have perennially migrated
over your head without your petty knowledge.
And the remembrance is mostly an unwelcome reminder
of your passing, of being no more.
There is no miracle, or surgical enhancement
that will turn the eyrie doings of that person now long gone
or bring back the splendour, or the fiery dawns.
Nothing will get you back, not the memories of those
short hours under the shower that made you wonder
about the great singer you would become.
The lights remain, now hidden, or turn to sunsets.
Even talent is a burden, when only pain can make a poem great.
The wisdom of years has never, in the west been revered
only death, disappearance, acute nostalgy and guilt
bring up the laurels you so seeked
and when they happen the overwhelming fear gets the limelight.
So no victory is ever sweet, but clingy.
Shadows and fortfeitment belong to age as do wrinkles and decay.
The recognition of our own unimportance,
the only thing that, without peace or fulfilment
does us the grace of putting us in our place.