EN
When the clock hands became a nightmare meant to measure our boredom,
we ran away,
so far away that we came across our own being.
There it was, crestfallen, in an identity mask, before the looking-glasses
that multiplied our anxiety for mystery.
No god ever chose us, we did not have to go begging for their compassion.
It’s not life that passes by,
It’s us that go through life
Without triggering the slightest spasm in eternity
In our search for the day on which we forgot that, in our nothingness, We are the universe.
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