I Throw Away The Seconds, The Hours, Weeks And Years Poem by Daniel Ionita

I throw away the seconds, the hours, weeks, and years
and scant, the time is smiling with chubby roundish face
while hiding in betrayal those Gethsemane’s fears,
which in my feverish racket of youth I can’t embrace.

But then he’s twisting sour, his face is now constraining,
he barks some harsh directives, all hurried and atrocious,
and prods me, wretched, reeling, my bravery now draining,
towards an age of worries, black-hearted and ferocious.

When late, in wistful fancy I look through ancient folders,
I find old letters, idylls, all vain and senseless swill,
I’m sipping from my tea cup, I rub my aching shoulders,
I’m begging for more seconds, with cap in hand and still.