Reflection of Nick Drake’s “Three Hours”

three hours was not enough
to save the silence
inside cold concrete
to cling to the wall
to pour out sand into the sea
to clench conscience in one’s fist
to hide one’s temple behind a vein

salt is itching in the skin of a palm
the lines of life have gone astray
if you did not find the master
you won’t find any slaves
life from troubles to turmoil
is measured by rusty scales
why do we need minutes
if we don’t keep the count of time


eternal #26/bones

How could You
imbue the soul
and infuse it with pain
and pleasures

into a dull white
of bones,
which are symmetrically arranged
on the background of
a transparent ‘flesh in blue’
of an x-ray shot
that I see on a screen of a machine?

Was I ever alive?

reflection #3

she was sitting in front of me
in the bus to Manhattan.

her face was reflecting in the window
we shared.

Lincoln Tunnel was the hyperspace.
remote stars were passing by in darkness
behind the glass.

only her face was quiescent.
she was sleeping.

I touched the window it was warm.
it must be her breath that warmed it.

when the bus left the tunnel,
the light erased her image.

isn’t it ironic?