I have read and re-read this beautiful and haunting poem by one of my favorite poets. Ina.
Sometimes a day won’t really come at all,
you saw the new light but it sticks in the curtain.
To get something done, you are numb and unable.
No weather this day, grey lingers till dusk,
no hour is set for food on the table.
What happens to days that won’t come to life,
that make us believe that nothing is certain
that stay far away from the calendar pages
and will not be mentioned in history books,
not remembered or mentioned for ever, for ages?
It is in those days that poetry lives
in seclusion, unnoticed by all that makes sense
it sits in easy chairs, waiting for the right word,
or better thoughts, taking its time as daylight won’t come
and hours pass without a sound is heard.
As on those days of oblivion, lines are arranged
to sentences escaped from thoughts, intense
and from the blood, the…
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