Isolation Time (April – Part 2)

April 30, 2020 § Leave a comment

8th April

Our reign of objects,

tables, chairs, books and paintings,

how well can they tell

 

the stories we’ve planned

a lifelong? Imagine those

feet walking around:

 

This is where mum used

to read. When on the phone she

moved around the house,

 

cleaning, saving time.


11th April

This wonderful sky,

how accurately it counts

time, space and borders.

 

Zero. None to see,

none to feel. Our mind is free

and flies where it needs

 

to be. Take that flight,

with the wings of memory

and the strength of hope

 

for we are born free.


13th April

Fears. In the morning.

First, everything feels usual,

the light from outside,

 

the smell of the room,

that ageing body. And then

the mind awakes too.

 

You can’t fool your mind

when your hands are not moving.

It counts time in months,

 

in years or just days.


15th April

The impossible

as everyday recipe.

We’ve lost appetite.

 

Now feed me with touch,

with laughter, bitter or sweet,

like friends at dinner,

 

before they part for

a long time. The host raises

a glass, sets the date

 

when to meet again.


18th April

Mum has sent braid bread

per mail, but it’s not here yet.

A fragrant parcel

 

in a lorry’s guts,

driving through silent countries.

They told her it’ll take

 

time. But she’s sent it

anyway. It’s Good Friday

in my old country,

 

all is still and waits.


20th April

One metre fifty

from each other. In the queue

of lost needless things.

 

Behind a mask, eyes

that do not try hard language,

they’re soft and get it

 

that you’re vulnerable

too. Then the distance moves on,

fast to someone else,

 

before one must speak.


20th April

 

My tired limbs sliding

on cool cotton sheets; must be

a summer prelude.

 

On the news, again,

everything important comes

second. Exit strategy.

 

The economy

needs the simple people soon

enough. The simple

 

people can’t escape.


30th April

This April will leave

ingloriously, bad thief

of springs that were one,

 

an endless waiting

of sudden good news, of friends

and festivities.

 

A one season year,

this seems to become, one that

all months are marching

 

in dark uniform.

 

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