AN Unmarked DATE
I remained like that date
on which no special work could happen.
I remained the middle date of that month,
whose number only kept matching every month.
I remained alone—
like a snare,
like a fading flower,
like a living corpse,
slowly deceiving itself,
day by day.
I don’t know
in what useless race I am.
I never win;
I only keep losing
little pieces of myself.
Yet the days kept passing,
like pages
no one cared to read.
Perhaps one day
this forgotten date on the calendar
will learn
how to bloom.
Until then,
I keep breathing, marking, treading
through each day and night,
as the clock continues—
time moving quietly
toward an unmarked date.
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