It is raining, the road from Ireland is unpassable
The sea cannot be passed with small steps, on rainy nights
When solitude is overwhelming you enjoy the earthquake cracks of the Earth
When pain has no time even for scientific explanation.
Godo is not coming, it is late, infected by the welcoming
Sleeping comfortably, amongst both of our dreams.
He is not coming, neither under the tree of life nor in the theater of wonders,
Under the sleep of expectation which your time doesn't understand...our time.
You are waiting, like the bride on the abandoned bed,
Monday, September 26, 2011
Topic(s) of this poem: art