Light dancing through the window
wakes me up to another day?
to be passed in full consciousness
of the seconds the minutes the hours?
I learn helplessness, I lose productivity,
the consciousness of the ticking clock gulps me.
I forget what is timeless,
what is the color of the day;
the only things I produce
are digestive enzymes and semen.
Even the thoughts have turned into reminiscence.
I welcome the night.
The night that escapes the day
and put me to sleep, not beyond clockwork
as the hourly gongs pierce my skull,
the appreciation of the morning alarm
increases as the night draws close.
But the minutes and the seconds dance
in the production house of my dreams.
I travel in a train
sitting beside my pretty child,
my sweet one, I hold her hand
and come down innumerable steps.
In dreams we hold hands in the crowd.
We dance like fireflies
we dance till the last muscle burn out
and she falls down before me,
I?m still strong and young,
I carry her in my arms
to a place where we can fly.
But I must fly alone.
This poem starts the countdown
from 30, and I?ll be gone
leaving behind the hatred for the day
and submission into the night
my pretty child, my sweet one.
The hourly gongs sometimes startles
me in the morning I?m just awake
shaking dreams from my hair
writing the poem.