Come sit with me, Lydia, next to the river

Come sit with me, Lydia, next to the river.
Let’s quietly watch it flow and learn
How life passes, and we’re not holding hands.
     (Let’s hold hands.)
Grown-up children, let’s remember that nothing
Remains or returns, life always passes,
Going to a far-off sea, close to Destiny,
     Beyond the gods.
Let’s stop holding hands, so as not to grow weary.
With or without pleasure, we’ll pass like the river.
Better to know how to pass silently,
     Without commotion.
Without loves, hatreds or passions that shout out,
Or envies that make eyes flash, or worries,
Since even with worries the river would still flow   
     And still empty into the sea.
Let’s love gently, knowing that, if we wanted,
We could exchange kisses, hugs and caresses
But that it’s better to sit next to each other
     Seeing and hearing the river flow.
Place in your lap the flowers we pick,
Letting their fragrance sweeten the moment —
This moment when, innocent pagans of decadence,
     We serenely believe in nothing.
If I become a shade before you, your memory of me
At least won’t burn or hurt or unsettle you,
Since we never hold hands or kiss each other
     And were never more than children.
And if you’re the first to give the gloomy boatman his obol,
I’ll remember you with no cause for suffering.
You, in my memory, will be gentle as now, next to the river,
     A sad pagan with flowers in her lap.

ZENITH, Richard (2019)