The Sentinel

Light comes in and I remind me of myself; there he is.
He starts by saying his name, which is (already understood) my own.
I go back to the slavery that has lasted seven times ten years.
He imposes over me his memory.
He imposes over me his daily miseries, human condition.
I am his old nurse; he forces me to wash his feet.
He haunts me in every mirror, in the mahogany, in the windows of the stores.
A few women have rejected him and I must share his pain.
He now dictates this poem to me, which I don't like.
He demands from me the the nebulous learning of the stubborn Anglosaxon.
He has converted me onto the idolatrous cult of dead army men, with whom perhaps I couldn't even exchange a single word.
Towards the last steps of the stairs I feel his presence next to me.
He is in my walk, in my voice.
Minutely I hate him.
I perceive with horror he can hardly see.
I am in a circular cell and the endless world is suffocating me.
Neither of the two deceives each other, yet we both lie.
We know each other too well, inseparable brother.
You drink the water from my glass and devour my bread.
The suicidal's door is open, but Theologians affirm that I shall be in the ulterior shadow, in the other Kingdom, expecting me.
(Not by me, unfortunately, by at least the translation is mine.)