Everyday life sprouting from our wounds stretched wider
In the middle, a pulsing bag filled with water; you hold its mouth shut
On a sheet of paper, you wrote “I feel nothing” a hundred times — you read it
A wasp taps against the window, who knows why: you weep for it
Clotted days chase one another like tangled stitches
We ourselves have no idea what is inside them — stones, gold, embraces
If two days were missing from life — would we even notice?
Everything would simply keep working — an indifferent, precise machine.
Perhaps one day there will be a day when everything is reversed
But let there not be! Because I do not want the cheerful ones to cry
It is better if everything stays as it is — let the days come, not wait around
Not that what I believe matters — I will become the silence of silence.
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