from here
over the next hill
all the way to the horizon,
like a vast, green expanse,
nothing to do
but stay in my bed if I want,
TV on or off, read & write,
go down to the computer.
after a few days
—because somehow we're always travelling—
the horizon's changed,
scattered with famililar obligations.
Time, you burglar,
I can't even see you,
it's not a fair fight!
This could easily be looked at as your membership of this site Max, where every hour the horizon keeps changing. Obligations; I think there are obligations being on here, whether they be to ourselves (to present our work) or to others. i like the way that the computer is suggested as a time machine. Of course time itself is not universally real, what is morning to you is late afternoon for me (I think) . Brilliant piece Max. These were my readings of it. This is 'what it said to me'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Time is indeed an invisible burglar that we will try to chase to no avail... trying to freeze some precious moments so time doesnt dare erase them