Happy Time

I pick up my socks, I put on my shoes, I throw my bag over my shoulder. This is a sock, that is a shoe, this is my bag, this is me, in a definite place. And time? Is it a sock? Is it “me”? What is time? Is it the white color of my hair? Or is it my cane? Or is it a name? Only a name? Like the unicorn? Is it like the faint sound of a ghost’s words? Faint, faint, faint, is time? Nothing has passed. The clock hands have not dug a trench between the past and the now. There is no ravine in me: between your first sweet glance and your glance today. between the first passion of my kiss on your chest and my kiss today on your heart. I close the door — behind me. I hold the railings. I count the stairs slowly, I come down: one two three ... I count them one after another, the words of my numbers, joined together. There is no falling in me. There is no ravine in me. Time? There is no time in me. The galaxy of all your sweet kisses turns in me: they take my hand: they lead me around through all the places of the world: just like now: above time ...