How Slowly The Days Creep By Poem by Gert Strydom

Maybe for a time I have been dead
and are living in someone else’s dream
or illness paranoia in this silent existence,
where I cannot any more make love or find it
as if I am already in the realm of death
and too slowly time continues to creep by
as if every thing has come to a deadly halt.

To nowhere I can turn
and daily I am wondering
about the reason of my existence
and the purpose of everything
and nowhere there is hope
that can let the darkness around me
pass a little quicker
while I am haunted.

Or maybe there are gods that are voluptuous,
that have got to beg nymphs
for their sexual favours
while I am lost in my madness
and do not write great words anymore
and they are now visiting other places
rather than my poems
as if something in me, maybe something intangible
wards them off from me and are refusing them
and they echo their mighty words
out at other places

and their roaring and jollification resounds around me
while they have pleasure and are enjoying themselves
to which I can only yearn
and in this hell I have to stay shackled.

Now lock your hands around me
as if nothing can every loosen them
and let your lips find mine
and bind us in sensual passion
that when death’s fingers grab for me
I for a last time
hear your heart beat
and you surround me for a last time lovingly.

[Reference: Wie langsam kriechet sie dahin by Heinrich Heine.]