Holder Volcano


Time clicks its tongue rhythmically


I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs, 
but a distant echo of the sad cries of cranes.
I'm the somber sky and the rainfall pecking 
the bunches of the Rowan trees
outside your window, which you will look 
through at the distant landscape during winter, 
where snow covered forests, fields and 
the empty winter snow-covered roads,
the rickety huts of the village.
I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs, 
I'm just a slave to my desires.
A slave of air, water and food.
At night I look at the moon, like a fish 
looking through an ice hole, in a frozen river, 
listening to the sounds of the wagons of the trains
knocking against the steel spines of the Railways.
A knock that sounds like a heartbeat,
knocking of a clock sounds like hiccups 
after eating the time from our lives.
I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs, 
I'm just loneliness and peace.
I am the silence and the orphan hood of old graves.
I'm a lonely passer-by, drunk in the snow blizzard
 who forgot the path home.
The twilight is lit by the moon like empty white paper,
like snow-covered winter roads,
similar to our September cotton fields.
I go and lengthen my silent shadow.
Balding trees in parks, as if in a dream,
and the leaves are gently flying to the pavement.
The fallen leaves are so soft,
I want to lie on them and sleep...
Let eternity pass on it's tiptoe,
you can sleep, locking the door.
And let time click it's tongue rhythmically,
swinging the pendulum of the grandfather clock.



03/07/2019.
10:18 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.