Monday Morning

I wake up and 
take a look at the world:
Bea has got engaged,

Paul is halfway through his readings

Michael has published an article

And another war is on the verge of breaking

While I haven’t even finished my coffee.

Close

Close

Close

Shut down.

Force shut down.

I can now live

My own life.

Innocent Question

What would you feel like

Being a letter

Omitted by all sorts of illiterates

Or being inserted by mistake

In places where you don’t belong

Or being used in the composition

Of words you dislike

All you can wish for sometimes

Is not to know
who surrounds you.

*** 

To know the time

No watch is needed

As no watch will tell you

When to be silent

Or when to speak,

when to leave…

and when to give…

how long you are to wait

Before you receive.

It Is This Place

               to Oxford

It is this place
Where people lose things
All sorts of things:

gloves, umbrellas, socks and pillows
Ear-rings and engagement rings,
Where so many people lose their minds
to its beauty.
(It is only lost books I haven't come across).
It is this place where pencils seem to grow
Off the ground
As if they're thrown out by the buried
To continue their idea.

It is this place... 
Which smells like croissant

On a Saturday morning

And beer on a Saturday night

And then nothing...

No noise, no scent.

Only church bells

And letters... and signs...

And science...

Silent science.