Poems ✍️

Where will be the centuries, where the dream
of swords that the Tartars dreamed of,
where the strong walls that they leveled,
where the Tree of Adam and the other Log?
The present is alone. The memory
set the time succession and deceit
It's the clock routine. Year
is no less vain than vain history.
Between dawn and night there is an abyss
of agonies, of lights, of care;
the face that is seen in the worn
night mirrors is not the same.
The fleeting today is dim and is eternal;
Don't expect another Heaven, nor another Hell.