Just finished re-reading a book
which I twice read in 1990;
thirty years, and something
of that time, at every page,
kept pushing at the veil of time,
a shape of the sheltered life around
that foolish, pathetic boy;
oh yes, he was shy and unhappy
outside his tiny, homely bubble,
yet it was he himself who came
to throw away what he loved
the most, and from life
the most hoped,
all what I long for bitterly.
Somewhere, in those years,
that foolish, pathetic boy -
may he rest unquietly in me -
ended up becoming me.
So life goes, slips
from our finger-tips,
and leaves us, with solitary lives
surrounded by the frigid wastes
of our own making
the cage.
16.02.2021
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