Burning Memories Poem by Maria Barbara Korynt

The everyday life is sometimes like the dream
but real. When itself are dreaming for us oneself
all sorts of things, we most often remember them
till the moment of writing.

They are diverging quickly into the oblivion.
Nightmares are only staying for a long time
because they managed to settle in
in convoluted tangling up the cerebral cortex.

There is a winter and in white. Late frost still
has the strong hug. What from, when I don't feel
even touching. Still is burning hot sand.

It is not a fairy tale about the red small hood, neither
about the girl with matches. It is only an echo
of turbulent nights, of sleepless time

vigils. It is fear of every next
second, with minute, with hour not one's.
Waiting for good message. It is a real world.

And a ghost train is rushing with the great speed
and for a moment is only fitting in order to dropp
the passenger off without, or with the ticket
applied the statute of limitations to.