Saturday, March 30, 2019



Angsty hope of childhood,

A distant memory,

Dirty shoes and tip-toeing

To avoid the check after the assembly.

Angsty hope of youth,

Not so long ago,

Trying to slip in with slippers,

Past the bar-tender high on club rules.

Angsty hope of the twenties,

The morrow stretches forever,

Past summers and winters,

Hope a bachelor, mouldy and grouse.


If magic doesn't happen even with all the believing,

Then there's no point to moon risings or rainbows,

Then there's no point in wondering at the stars,

There's no point in roaming the empty roads,

There's no hope in the serenade of the sleepless crows.


Not all dreams are seen in your sleep,

Some are lived between prosaic every day,

In the midst of a summer drought,

In the eye of a winter cyclone,

In a garden of fallen trees and dead flowers,

The long walk along the road that ever ends,

The yearning at waves that are never lost for sounds.


The clocks show the same time every day,

The long hand losing the race again and again,

Tick after tick, each lasting an eternity.

Time is seen in the wrinkles on our foreheads,

And the voice of your grandfather, now dead.

The embers shall swallow your memories,

Songs on Gods who maybe, and you.

There's no road sign to your street,

None to mark your house,

The memories lurk like strangers in a station,

Forever looking into the distance

For a train that never shall come.


Maybe life is a long moment,

Which shall end for that's how long a moment lasts.

Maybe life is a dream,

Which ends when you wake up to the other, now and then.

Maybe life is a memory,

Which shall fade away into a non-existence.

Maybe life is hope,

A quest forever, a quest to reach evermore.




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