L’Homme qui marche, Alberto Giacometti, 1960
I am reverting to the boyish figure of my youth,
trying to become more handsome than I have ever been before.
I am concerned that you might not want me
with hallowed cheeks and flattened abdomen.
What would you press your lips into?
What would your fingers grasp in the last moments of love?
I am trying to hold my own against your beauty.
I know this to be a worthy cause but one I cannot win;
yet, it injects me with an energy that knows no bounds.
This is a also gentle warning.
I expect that as my transformation goes forward
women will throw themselves at my feet, in ascending numbers.
I could become preoccupied with a lass younger than you.
I might even surrender my efforts to save the world
– these are not working very well anyway.
Please save me before I turn too thin.
The Next Great War