Days go by through austere loneliness,
The well-established warmth is around us.
The world remains solitary … at random,
As if it were exiled in other spheres,
Not listening to the essence of nice poems.
Some waves of greatness get recited,
– Hours are flying, Evenings get vanished –,
As days get fulfilled with high sorrows,
In an unworthy sense of human beings
Only solidary with wallets. The rush clock
Is running with useless length, old customs,
Homesickness, spheres motivated by image.
We no longer walk at a good pace.
Wingless flying never goes ahead.
It was a cloudy morning, I dared not look back.
The whole day staring at faces and rocks and branches,
and doors the faces came from, hiding… fading.
Up close I beheld it and didn’t get off the floor.
Right then, suddenly, it got dark.
And I no longer saw the clouds.
I might not remember of it again.
Another afternoon, beyond on the horizon
– Like hidden – there was a cosy young girl.
She was unclothed. I contemplated delicately
Her endearing body that was so exhilarating,
And made my teens rekindle within me.
Sweet youth of everlasting remembrances.
A shame the weather was inclement.
I saw front view, consciously, what would happen
But I didn’t move a finger. I was immobile, unwilling,
Facing a hereafter that no longer suits me.
I’m not stonemade or fond of current times,
Nor do I want to rewrite history.
I breathe, work, study, write and concentrate.
I don’t smoke or drink, nor am I happy.
I seem to be surveying but with a short movement
If only I could remove the evils of the third world,
Where children work and bad governments are ruling.
Like a garden with grass, – with rubbish dirtying the floor -,
Forgotten by humanity, on a bitter sunset
Of austere solitude, dust is piling up
in the lost silences of childhood.
The word takes over the naked landscape
Building solitary meaningless portrayals.
Poems don’t have assonant rhyme, slashed
like a bank cheque. Useless to write down
beautiful terms to describe something non-existent.
Short stories get me bored, love novels get me down.
Tirant died in bed not in fight, being loved.
I leave the pen beyond. Paper cries in the drawer.
Chocolate gets easily melted in my hands,
My heart is burning morning to evening.
I’m seeking for an everlasting hallmark.
I’m confused, a thorough maze.
Writing does not fulfil my fate.
The key to my fright is not a poem.