The wind hardly breathes
under a rusty crust,
hot leaves are burning
like stifled dreams inside cushions,
growing in heaps of broken flights
on a rain foundation.
I should grasp them all in my fist,
crush them and throw the powder
over the last fangs of grass.
The sun would set down limpid
free from rings of fog,
the winds would brush more easily the rain
like someone carelessly wipes one tear
dropping from a single eye,
the snow would wrap up the world’s waist,
springtime stars would appear,
white and unknown.
And maybe I will fall asleep
apart from dreams
near a numbed ticking clock
one hour belated.