The London’s Hours

.
Something to do with measures
Unknown
To others the length
Of my despair whether is
It by nature , mine
Or a not understanding of facts

.
Of the jokes
Among men, their secret bets
Their sudden shoulders

.
And all was lived
And built, all that had an essence

.
To dust them off
To cough them up
It’s all forgotten
At once.

.
I don’t seem
To understand other’s
Measures, the sense of
Their steps, it’s long
far from me.
.

.