Poems of the Stone - I Am Like a Slave

Exile to my room
I run as a robe
In front of the TV
Pull it to bed
Where her torment begins with time
Who flips with it
It is not enough to close the door
() Has passed by
And left on the handle
His look is clear
Yesterday bonding in the back
It's a number that's slowly getting bigger
One day jumps from under the window
Lay on the table
That died yesterday
Where there are other dead
On platforms, yesterday they were books
My bottles committed suicide, when
Life stopped in the middle
They were also my resurrection that I gave to the winter
Ghostly, who did not get out of bed
I talk to him
To give me his side
To be his message to life
That is now
Fridge door
TV is silent
Things sleep on their platforms
We do not know when it was petrified
And when I was ordered to do so
We do not know when we found the century
Covering in the corner
Twenty years
We are surrounded by yesterday's likeness
Which is repeated by number after number
A silent kitten is preparing to keep up with us
When we come too
The same
The time has come
We have to prepare to leave our ghosts
That we cannot get out of
Without losing room for ourselves
Inside it
We are just in the distance
Even in our family
In the distance, and always the ghosts ourselves
Death dress us
They threw us at others
Our likeness is piled on us
The detainees in their bodies
We repeat all day long
Sometimes, only occasionally
We get a vacation
In front of the TV
Sometimes we carry this loaned life
To the kitchen where we transfer it
And we throw away its peels
We do not know how to turn over in the dish
To a muzzle looking at us
We don't know what's behind it
Only decades
I could not be past
Decades of years have fallen from us
As a meal, we spat it out
In front of a century, it is still sitting
And if he split at the age of twenty
Exile to my room
I pay as a slave
In front of the TV
I pull back to bed
I count seventy five years
before I sleep