THE HOURS WILL FLY PAST IN ANGER

I have sacrificed four

out of five last days

to poetry

and avoided

the killings

which people murdered

in them couldn't,

I closed my eyes

to the world that is

and comforted myself

with the wordls we create

with words

in poetry,

no true secondary creations,

just moments floating

like enduring soap bubbles

made of cast iron,

just stages to act a single scene,

small pocket universes

to hide into

while the world screams.

I have the poetry itch

again on this bleak morning,

I've copied poems

from the web to translate,

I've read a ten or dozen.

I could just play with words

while children play with booby-trapped

toys left by adored genocidaires.

But this day will be

for the world's pain,

and when I open that first news

article and start sharing

on social media, the hours

will fly past in anger.

16.11.2025