How do I
name this feeling
Of avoid
Of escape
From my own self.
Fearing to stand
in front of myself.
Where it is
me against me.
Where the other
asks the account
of life’s each day !
Of life’s each moment.
And I haven’t a penny
Of any worthy actions
to fill up the wasted
baskets of time.
Life is running
out of time!
These moments
are evaporating.
Stronger I try to hold
faster they slip
out of my hands
Like the grains
of a hot sand
on a summer
Saharan afternoon .
