Time To Go Poem by Bengt O Björklund

There are earthly days when time
just seems to tap dance
around fire flies and pretty girls
on their way to mystery’s meat market
where streets of silver streaked summer
roll you over begging to be seen.

Whisk your weary ways to Babylon
with a chant and a prayer
and pave your tip toe passing
with the hissing of the serpent stone,
grovelling to the midnight moon
with bones that melt for Paganini
every invented way you go.