Slow

He dies a slow death who becomes a slave to habit, repeating everyday
the same paths, who doesn't change the mark he leaves, won't risk wearing
a new color, nor talk to people he doesn't know.

He dies a slow death who avoids passion, who prefers
black on white and dotted i's over
a whirlwind of emotions,
especially those that bring a shine to the eyes, rescue smiles
from yawns, hearts clumsy with feelings.

He dies a slow death who doesn't upend the table when he is
unhappy at work, who won't risk a sure thing
for the uncertainty behind a dream, who won't allow himself
at least once in his life, to flee from sensible advice.

He dies a slow death who doesn't travel, nor read, nor hear
music, who doesn't laugh at himself.

He dies a slow death who destroys his love for himself, who won't
let himself be helped.

He dies a slow death who spends his days complaining of his
bad luck or of the neverending rain.

He dies a slow death who quits a project before
starting it, not asking about what he doesn't know, or not
answering when asked about something he does know.

Let us avoid death by gentle insallments, remembering always
that being alive demands an effort much greater
than the simple fact of breathing.

Only firey patience will allow us to conquer
a splendid happiness. 

Pablo Neruda