The Time. Poem by Vasil Marku

Often I have to walk of no time
Sometimes I have to free it's way
because it is in a strange hurry
Other occasion I have to take it by my hand
When barely play the old feet
Like a sneaky witch...
The time that no longer resembles either itself
Takes me forward with invisible hands
As like wants to waist me over the peak stream of Drin River
Other times behaves like a wayward child
And cannot reach how to answer to it
Sometimes makes me to rip it like a shirt with dirty old patches
Sometimes I make its roots to soak my time of water
Because looks like it's gone mysteriously in my unseen hands
The time
The most matured mist that moves according itself
With no time to even eat itself
And forgets to measure it's loss
Trimmed and extended
Squashed in itself
Like a cubic of barren minds
The time that got stuck at place of no place
Bearing myself in, also
Calling me an easy simple element... Which it's not true...
The time with transparent of double green rhythm
Through the entangled hair
A time lost more then one time and not for my fault
Time of disobedience
Omissions
The time that
In a day to come, shall eat for sure you and me
Ignoring us like we never have been before
The time
Always marches with us and without us
And we only deceive ourselves
Like that we have it in forever in our hands...
The time.