This place of time
is empty of convictions
of common air between trees
and between forests and cities
everything is lonely, rooted
in a past hazy and contrived
whose days in a hurry
run past your heart
whose hunger grips you on empty roads
and shakes you fiercely
with the restless chatter of the lost

I pity you, you who occupy
this place of time
and call it your home –
I pity you, you who dismiss
your longing for those days
which glint like diamonds
through the running film of delusion

This place of time
which you endure with sedatives
painkillers and balms
you have to escape it, flee to someplace else
where the talk of people
still stirs the life in your gut
where words are not rehearsed, faith not false
and feeling not polished by age
to the point of oblivion

This place of time will soon
see its end
but you should first end
your picnic in the graveyard
enough of your worship, the dead are pleased
and their ghosts are tired
of stalking you in your dreams,
rest and relax
build new homes away from the ruins
cast off the borrowed shields
heavy with hatred and wars
come now and kiss the seed
waiting to be born.

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