Tic toc,
the sound reverberates,
throughout the empty hall,
in between the squeaks,
of the rocking chair,
where he sits in oblivion,
to the outside world,
and thinks,
and listens,
to the clock going tic toc.
He ponders at each pulse,
that signals the heartbeat,
and every breath he takes,
while the walls seem to close upon him,
suffocating,
frightening,
or sometimes inviting,
giving signs of a heavenly abode,
images unspoken,
a mirage in the desert,
of this bizarre life,
and he sits back,
continuing his contemplation,
with the seconds of the clock ticking away,
and the angel of death,
lurking nearby,
to give words to the unspoken image,
and take flight to the eternal abode.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Poem has real flight to it