25 June 2024, Amsterdam
The day before,
the ceremonious burst of
the last blushed rose,
I cycled horizonward,
to play with Time’s children.
It was pure serendipity.
The elusive scent of the uncut grass,
empty of itself, was filling my sight.
Some meadows farther,
two chicks on a stork tower,
were feeding on the fragmented cloud’s pearls,
while their parents were searching,
finding their daily bread,
somewhere else.
But, some farther breaths,
gods were swaying,
a big bushy brush,
on an unscribbled awareness,
portraying their precarious absurdity.
‘ Only children can play the time.’
I guessed.