This time about time
It is hard to believe how the saints do it,
that is, sinners before we become ourselves.
After the will, after the tears, after the sadness, after the joy,
we may differ in our choice, we are one in its lack,
and when the stream doesn’t feed us, the river sweeps us away,
for justice under the anthill of words.
All imagined – for no one.
Behind the house the moon cracked in a puddle;
it's magic casting a spell.
And as we wake up a second before ourselves,
entangled in mankind, untangled from its mind,
the eyes sink at the state of it all;
an ocean of stars... all alright.
Strange, but not impossible, is all
without a thought, you feel it breathe.
So despite the tearing in the belly of the night
and against the clocks and those pointing hands,
let yourself get lost like Indian summer,
since geese are closer to life, flying in the dreams of true nature.
There, freedom leaves traces – feathers upon the path.
In the forest, nudity with affection for the soul
and a lake lined with a mirror and two full moons.
Lake for walking and a map of stars,
eternity, the thing is, is all at once.
So you don't have to hurry because you are,
just close your eyes -
for one whole lifetime out of infinitely many.