The past has no sharp edges
To kill us with repetition.
There is nothing but a room
Filled with the continual movement of birds.
Men and women speak without words,
And noone screes the meaning of events.
We have made a magician of the past
To dominate the movement of our thoughts.
The day continues without comment,
In the past where we have resigned ourselves forever.
Advancing slowly, the past will grow
At the expense of our lives.
For it is a cancer in our bowels.
Soon, all will become an endless memory,
And a day without conflict will be welcomed
As if it were the last train to arrive in our town.
