on the smooth varnish of the table,
like the hands of a clock,
the scattered and fragmentary time,
an empty afternoon,
like countless tiny water droplets,
destined to be,
injected into the river of time,
nowhere to be found,
as sunlight and crinkly clouds,
wild birds stop flying,
with the forest on the slopes.
in a dream there exist,
the dazzling galaxy at night,
and feathered time that escaped from a sealed container,
can’t catch anything.