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Vasil Marku

My dreams...

My dreams

Oh my brat living dreams, why behave to me?
Like really you are half dead,
And you nervously move around as alarmed,
every time I try to touch,
Do you know?
I feel myself like an empty space in your midst, so
Why do you look at me,
like I'm a stranger from out of space?
Even if you do not want me,
please do not charm to anyone,
Please no more
Because I have suffered enough, more than enough
Whenever your curious shadows tried to follow me…
You wet dreams, distorted, made so by nothing whatsoever…
Do not call me guilty, only because I forgot to play your melody …
You naughty dreams, in this time of monstrous
I will not leave you now on, to look so crooked at me
Dreams, dreams, dreams,

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The time.

Often I have to walk of no time
Sometimes I have to free it's way
because it is in a strange hurry
Other occasion I have to take it by my hand
When barely play the old feet
Like a sneaky witch...
The time that no longer resembles either itself
Takes me forward with invisible hands
As like wants to waist me over the peak stream of Drin River
Other times behaves like a wayward child
And cannot reach how to answer to it
Sometimes makes me to rip it like a shirt with dirty old patches
Sometimes I make its roots to soak my time of water
Because looks like it's gone mysteriously in my unseen hands
The time
The most matured mist that moves according itself
With no time to even eat itself
And forgets to measure it's loss
Trimmed and extended
Squashed in itself

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