***
In our cities arise woods worth being admired
and let's give up any source as if we
owned
a book of the whole future and
by
the power of our own fantasy we could
distinguish
visages and events that can be named
achievements
on the projection of
a
geometric progression on the day when
you,
my soul, surpassed by life stay
cringed
in a classroom at the first
lesson
where any sense, meaning,
standpoint
can be modified: time
is
an emission of the anxiety about
not
growing up too soon beyond the formless
curtain of the sadness realm
in the blind air in the evenings of our
cities
– the delirium caused by life
in the woods growing into liquid
blaze
toward celestial sphere
above
obscure settlements is swallowing
our
breath as hues spread above horizon within
limits
of a closed vessel of disasters,
of dreams that make noise in the depth
as do bumblebees in a box.
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