‘tis strange, so very strange; my inner timetable
doesn't mesh with the office hours - it seems my
mental gyroscope's unbalanced & my life ship's
battered by invisible winds, thus every hour feels
like a whole day in which I enter another cross-
section of cyclic time - & that stretches in every
direction and on into infinity - while I drift on the
surface of a single horizontal line
I have fun briefly, relaying words for a few seconds
then my system short-circuits and my mind aborts
as my head explodes - after adding salt to my tea
I feel better and resume my languorous trip among
little groups of clustered words, the storm abating;
then existence grows transparently thin again and
the shining white marble monuments of meaning I
have carefully constructed melt - becoming the
most delicate of lace before disappearing
The frothing waves of thoughts I relish in sink into
sands of nothingness and all that‘s left is dappled
reality consumed by cold, sad, opaque transiency;
while the beautiful fountain of wisdom dries up, the
long hours become many aeons slowly flowing in
long grey lines
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem