El buen retiro

We don't know how long we have left to live
and meanwhile I have filled up with petrol
and wait for the electric car.
Drawing-room oracles descend imberbi
on the sandy shore
soiled with supposed truths.
We witness the comedy:
"the pension system must be saved"
and for this our dæmons are expelled from the chorus.
All right, all this becomes a mockery
of the sacredness of an advent that never happens.
I prefer to read the Greek classics,
since I have little time left
rather than the good Chomsky,
ashen prophet of a world I shall not see.
I still try to understand economic cycles
and try to decipher between the lines
Schumpeter's thinking.
Then I say to myself what do these people know about infinity?
What do they know of the crumpled intimacy
of those who have lost hope
and sees bare life and that's all
without the laurel wreaths of thinkers
of good bourgeois education.
Science for the living who do not realise they are already dead.
I look for the phrases suitable for the buen retiro from life,
when the time comes.
Maybe I will take up smoking again.
Cigarettes cost money,
but life preserved by triglycerides
and bronchitis by health-conscious people
armed with flaming scales,
with each passing day
loses its value