Rogue

When you are young,
devoured by the fire of impotence
and the need to overturn a present
saturated with domesticated impulses,
you are seized with envy for the steadfastness
and strength of the rogues.
You long for the infernal thrill of violence,
the fiery gaze of the heretic
and the peace of the executioner
and the thief.
Because you are weak.
Only a weak person envies the rogue.
The rogue has no reason to envy himself,
he is what he is
and does not ask himself why,
nor does he desire anything other than what
that the rogue instinct
and his expertise grants him.
When you are old
you stop envying the rogue
and you only wonder how to spend the time
you have left.
If you stimulate your mind
with pleasures made of flickering images
of melancholic longings
and desires for revenge,
or by turning to the affections
and living for them,
ignoring the perfidy of time.
Or you ask yourself
whether it is not the case of doing something good
for those who crowd the world's disconsolate mists
and the teeming deserts of sun-baked plush