Poem
Time Contemplation (Closed Time)
It’s been a while, and the time that passes—closed within that ridiculous space of the Moment— is now absurd and silent, a lament. Life is endlessly measured in the disjointed springtime of the seed. What hurts me most is not the mind, but the discontent of the eternal being that does not lie. Wandering in this labyrinth of cement, an asphalted sea of torment. Why? I ask myself—me to me— if “me” and “I” were not the same. And with no answer, I keep wandering. What does it matter to know, if I know nothing— just another one in the crowd I am… or will be… how strange. Madness… panic… is the end of what is said not to have… and I sing.