The wind turns over this thick page on my lap
Both of us will soon go to sleep. This amazing night
The wild is not calling us anymore. Peace remains
Quiet, like lightning without the thunder. Like that
Bud on our ancient tree that blooms into marvelousness
This is home. After all. After all those evenings of solitude.
After the lonely teas and the lonesome lights of the streets.
We rose to the sky and saw the ancient tree from above
Once again. Go to sleep, tonight you are back home. And home
Will leave you again and you will have to wait for another return.
What you created with your own hands. A mess of roads and oceans,
A mess of different hours and different darknesses.
It shall burn you to your veins. Skin-deep. Leave you hanging
Between burning and surviving. Between fire and life. And your own fire,
Shall keep you warm in the northern winter again.
People walk by your window, your heart is darkened through their passing.
It stops beating as if a broken clock. You will bend forward,
With one hand up in the air, one hand pointing down towards them on the street,
Call them as they walk by. Will they listen? Will they hear? Will there be an effort?
An effort to keep the bud a bud, not let it bloom, not let it live
Towards its own death.