Nothing Really Changed That Day

I was standing in the old park

The sanatorium of my childhood

The everlasting bastion

Of youthful mysteries

Bold ambitions

Bad romances

Juvenile wickedness

Bitter truths

Disturbing revelations

And fancy gleams of twisted dreams

As I’m inhaling the timeless ephemeral essence

The art of doing nothing

Comes right at me

It surrounds me

It penetrates me

From cheeks to bones

To the stones under my toes

And not even my monkey thoughts

Can come in the way

Of the miracle of doing nothing

Soon enough a shy caressing voice

Summons a whisper in the abyss

Of my still and sleepy mind

Which says: “Remember, thou art mortal!

Remember, thy image will but vanish

Erased from this world’s bleak page

And the screams

The cries

The lies

The good and evil lines

About thee

Disappear will they too”

The voice succumbed

And I was seized once again

By the same deal

And wished for a cup of tea

Thinking about the cigarette

Smoked on the silver mountain.