TEMPUS FUGIT

 

Time flees.

 

Slow white clouds

pass in the light of

this star on

the blue sky. Grey

twilight comes.

 

On the balcony the

recently germinated little plants

have been the same

for a year. 

In the imagination

memories are creating

a fantasy of time.

 

Impatience

devours me!

 

In museums

the seated scriba awaits

patiently the dictation

since four thousand years ago.

In the quarry the workers

break up stone for sphinxes.

 

“Sun is God!”

shout the impresionists

red perfect circle

in grey sky and river

of the city.

 

A million years

disappeared forever

overnight

and our century

boasts about

itself.

 

Ah, my poem, now,

now, I want you

now!

 

To man that

creates time

his time is

everything.

 

 

 

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