What are days? What are days? They are sense datums like the wind or colour. Where is their course and ways? At nightfall, they all go down to an unknown parlour. Behind the hill where the other day bury itself with lost rays, The sun rises powerfully with new rays and marrow. What are days? They make us believe their existence by giving in a feeling. In all our stays, We always have this kind of feeling. Here patience never pays, Our eyes see nothing, but it’s just a feeling. What are days really? They only make some advances without retreating. It’s just a feeling merely, They come and go without cheating: Just like a rumour that goes clearly, Leaving their engineers freaking. What are days actually? How can the dead be counted among the living? Each day appears punctually, Though we keep believing in the feeling. They always die gradually And do leave many grieving. What are they exactly? Geography and science don’t talk about them. They are not even known historically. This makes it look like a shame. They are no facts of them known biologically, Throughout each day’s term. What are days by the way? 364 corpses with a living day adds up to a year We wait for the year as if we will see coming in silver a tray One day with life changes the gear And makes a year hides in the shadow of each day Forgetting those in its rear. It seems there are no days but just a day, Always recycled and renewed. Each day mourns in its own special way, No matter how screwed. Each day goes ahead feeling it’s here to stay, Dies what looks like a premature death, but still accrues. copyright@makinajames 2015
Posted on: Wed, 21 Jan 2015 11:48:07 +0000
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