We were two travellers
Passing through the infinite possibilities,
And what we have found seemed impossible;
It was far beyond our dimension’s limits –
This is why it was so beautiful.
But, by matter of chances,
Our adventure was indeed impossible,
And now, we are both travelling parallel,
Similarly, but far away from each other,
In other infinite impossibilities.
This heart is going to stop.
It may be a scarry sound next to a pub,
A silent scattershot in a shop to rob,
An exciting smell in a chemic lab,
Or a short nap in a taxi cab.
Only God knows how it will end,
Passing through that particular land.
But indeed this heart is about to cease.
It is the keen and slow pain that nobody sees,
The heavy carelessness bringing no ease,
The fast heart-beaten minutes I lose,
My non-existent ecography’s hues.
Only God knows how it ends,
While I’m passing through all these lands.
My muscles are tied to two wild horses,
The Morning and the Night,
The lines are held by the work I’m doing,
And the wipes by the time.
The days are yielding to their courses,
Absorbing my might,
The fatigue obliterates what I’m doing,
Any good thing or crime.
The only clean things are these morses,
Crying s.o.s. in the fight,
But the horses are just pursuing,
They listen to no rhyme.
Woe on the time which is resting under the ground –
Been its graveyard tomb or sepulchar mound,
Been its object eulogy, or been ne’er mourned,
Been mouldered, or b’ing in a funeral morgue;
Woe on them, woe!
Woe on the time and its living framework –
Being the languid killing of a suicidal slice of time,
Being the laborious ploy of mine or thine,
Being any masque of pure waste of time;
Woe on them, woe!
Woe on the larval chances of the upcoming –
Bēon the unseen turn of a living second,
Bēon the unbirth non-living dead moments,
Bēon any biased prophecy of temporal or beyond;
Woe on them, woe on them all!