We can only ‘waste' so much time before we realize that it's something we have never done
You can only waste so much time, but time shouldn't be defined by dust flying around the sun
And everyone's little white promises float into the sky to become the clouds
and only when, now and then, we find they've broken up again
do they get heavy enough to fall back down
ambivalent tears which feed the ground
but, sure enough, they find their way and flowers bloom as if to say
here we are, we're never gone, we're something else, but it's beautiful
just waking up on your front lawn, sure enough, reaching up again
and bursting open to imitate the sun that we could never reach
it would burn us all away
and we treat that beauty like a silhouette - we cannot know what, but only where it is
So we've made it less than that; a quiet muse easy to forget
like myself as a little boy, with messy hair and corduroy
laying in the grass on our old front lawn with the colorful promises
that are never gone
reaching up at the sky, though I was too young to understand why
and I could smile at the petals before they'd wilt and become something else
like me, as a young boy, with long hair and a soldier toy
whose armies march only to the hero's drum
because back then, I was too young
and undefined
by promises, misty like the fog in my old home town
running on the beach, in the pouring rain
remembering a name, when I turned around
to see the footprints were all mine
and mine alone
and it made me grow up so fast, shame youth never seems to last
but nothing is a waste of time
not that we see this though, like beauty; like the silhouette
Like a boy too quiet to forget
Watching the clouds he didn't own brush through the sky
through branches swaying in the wind, on their front lawn
not thinking that they'll soon be gone
because eventually, now or then,
when they've somehow broken down again
each boy gets heavy enough to fall into the ground
and choose not to make another sound
but, sure enough, he'll find his way, and flowers bloom as if to say
here I am. I'm never gone.
I'm something else, but it's beautiful.
just holding out for a new dawn, sure enough, reaching up again
and bursting open like the sun I once came from
until the little white scars all burn away
until the little bright stars all shine the way
and the mind is quiet again
and the clouds all clear
and it's okay that in short years
the few that knew all dried their tears
and couldn't let themselves ever know
a lifetime like a flake of snow
just one in a snowstorm to melt like any other
and feed into the coming Spring
with every flower it will bring
amidst the well known but ignored things
like me, as a young man, just doing everything he can
who knows he hasn't made it yet
so much contemplated, yet still so easy to forget
like the beauty of a silhouette
hiding from their flashy cars and cloud-promise rings
among the well known but ignored things
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem