Sometimes, time does interchange.
But my grandma, who’d moved from her poor house to live inside my skull, is still throwing seven stones at the cellular phone, wakes me up each time a light emerges from the end of universe, nudges the horizon by her cane, and dips her dry bread into an orange waterfall.
Sometimes, while I’m awake, I see a stick thriving in a desert’s cheek. On its head, each morning, there grows a Bedouin made of mahogani wood, standing on two sand feet, blowing into embers of August, and waiting for winter.
Thus, there is no time here for time. No watch on his hand, pendulum doesn’t dance on mountain cliffs, no clocks on the walls of air.
By mid-noon, the stock dives into the eye of the sun, buries its shadow inside a gown stretching from pre-Islamic epoch, creeping, when stars rub their eyes, like a deadly snake, between the eyes of allegory and the rocks of the tale, over the evening hissing.
Sometimes, conspiracies take the shape of a glass horse. Here is the eagle, with smoky nails, with a Pinocchio beak, puts on a suit maid of dove feathers, and chops the city.
Sometimes, time gets colored;
a yellow time on tables of the royal family and newspaper pages,
a grey time in waiting corridors of Joseph Kafka,
a red time on throats of revolutionaries,
a velvet time on cedar songs lost since half a century,
a watery time in lovers’ eyes.
a green time, when the sun follows the steps of clouds on earth,
a golden time, whenever nostalgia take us beyond details,
A blue time when Sinbad emerges from a book,
A silver time before we trampled the moon by our own feet,
a black time when we slap Christ on his two cheeks,
a time without color, each time the last fig leaf falls down.