One face above all

by Peycho Kanev

My face my morning face
in front of the old mirror,
razor in my hand and I imagine
wheat and blood;
what are the veins but rivers
of my fading memory,
the empires will fall
the universe will collapse
the roaches will triumph:
but it is still early
and as the tomb rock rolls among
skulls of the geniuses of the past
as the realm of the future winks at us
we are here I say and notice the razor
in my hand:
it is durable-
it will outlive the tyrants, the ants
and the trees,
every sunset, every winter,
every eclipse,
the things that make us wonder
but not enough to give us
the answers.