THE AFTERNOON FALLS, FALLS
The afternoon shouts to the sun
how agitated it is.
The street bustles, burns.
The sounds crowd
one after the other
as in an endless line
of tones and rhythms.
Thousands of eyes play
to watch without pause.
Everything happens fast:
the footsteps, the screams,
the cars, the motorcycles.
The birds, terrified,
fly to their hiding places.
Nobody sees anything.
Time is running,
nothing stops it.
Contemplation,
once an exercise of the soul,
is surrendering on
the eve of its
non-existence.
The afternoon falls, falls.
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