Morse, My Deaf Friend [and the white-gray light of day...] Poem by Miloš Đurđević

and the white-gray light of day seeps through again, scattered in
empty capsules it oscillates and ticks; pale rays of the false sun linger
on, as if hanging in the air, not reaching anything bringing nothing,
the murky, non-white non-dark face of the dough sun sucks in and
squeezes out the remains of the dead trees, dead grass, dead air, dead
soil, thundering without sound all night long, it can't stop, it has never
begun