When the sun sets, flecking clouds with diaphanous light and birds whistle daytime's last summer psalms, we call it night.
We're moonbathing and Sunny's features are inlaid with glamorous silver-blue patines. We'll reawaken soon, our time is measured in assignments, not in hours, days or even seasons.
Responsibility is a villain of our own devices. You can run from it, bolt your door against it, only to find it's right there - in back of you - smiling like a tiger or a parent.
Unfortunately, the university isn't a hotel. It's more of a competition, like those survivor shows.
We'll enjoy the moonlight, for a few, laconic moments, for it seems to possess a sweet power to cool and calm, but soon our purposes will call, irresistibly, and we'll return to the performance.
Merriam Webster: laconic: brief to the point of seeming rude.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem