I cannot just sit there
and watch helplessly
how my life gets wasted,
drowns
in the sometimes heavy floods
of a poetry deluge
that comes from nowhere
in these bare fields of the daily desert
I cannot just give up
the workday automation,
or throw away the extinguishers of my nights,
bad food, bad wine, bad movies, bad lovemaking,
the meaningless chores,
that keep me away from touching by mistake
the sharp edges
of the relevant things
where I could cut my thinking
and I could ooze out
till fainting, till passing out,
fatally injuring,
and wasting the lifes
of myriads of baby thoughts
I cannot accept
that I could find interest
in watching the anonymous street
taken over by the army of anonymous people,
faces without contours
on the hard canvas of a shadowy concrete,
the cyanotic skin of the dying city,
and let the words
to whisper broken lines
in my ears,
worn out of the deep silence
in the day desert
I cannot let
the belief of irrelevance
of everything I do
of everything you do
take over,
fetch the sceptre in my washed up brain,
the only kingdom they made me swore allegiance to
I cannot just sit and watch him die,
my private Sisif of daily chores
my trustful slave
who never listened to a song
who never recited a verse
who never sang a line
I am a man of my time
