Or will it never?
Orange lights, always the same and lights from buildings and lights from my home, and a sudden noise breaks the silence.
We don’t have a lot of time left to fight climate change, yet the world keeps playing drums at the rhythm of war,
bomb, bomb, bomb, drone, gun,
a rhythm that has nothing to do with our breath if we breathe in and then out paying attention,
and oh the colours you’d see if you’d only close your eyes, and you’d keep breathing.
My editing waits for me tomorrow, promises made at night, good intentions,
and maybe lately I’ve been reading too much Kerouac.