Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.16.75.169
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
It was one of those sunny days, that later on merge in memory, and you can’t tell one from another instantly, but on the second sight they discern, each with its own number of little events. There was good visibility from the second deck of the bus - my memories start when we are standing at a junction on red, we need to cross a major motorway. There are not many cars moving along the motorway, we keep staying, I remember a delivery biker, and a yellow DHL van in front of us, it looks like it is going to attend in the same direction. Finally, the light turns green, and we slowly cross the motorway into a narrow street. The low-rise houses are half-hidden by trees - the spicy smell of linden trees in bloom wafts in through the half-open window on my side. We pass an industrial zone, a string of concrete warehouses standing tightly together, then we descend into a valley, then the road goes up the hill. Soon we stop in front of the barrier - ahead we see the car park, small groups of people here and there - tourists who have come to see the Seven Sisters, and perhaps to swim in the sea.  I descend a fairly steep path down to the sea, and finally I'm down on the shore. Although there are people wandering around, I don't notice anyone, and I can't hear what they are saying. I manage to sit down on one of the rocks warmed by the sun, and just stare at the water, at the calm waves. It doesn't matter whether I exist or whether someone else is looking at the sea, as long as I stay in some incomprehensible flat that serves as my home, although my home is something out of the realm of unrealisable fantasies. But there is no law that compels one to have a country, a home, habits, a job, a family. I don’t have a country, its the country that has me, for reasons beyond my comprehension, same is relevant about that bogus home, job, family, habits. I agree to relate to some point to a number of things that are not my own, its not a big trouble. But I don't belong there mentally or spiritually. I take advantage of this oversight of the overseers of order, and slip away to where the waves reflect the light of the sky. Who I am, doesn't matter. Can be anyone, or someone you happen to know.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required