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I
As often, my mind absconds.
But this time around,
It sneaks into a future
Where now and then
Switch positions;
Where all the plays and gays
Become of the olden days
Like an history written
Ahead of the few days to come.
Every day bears its own history.
Every morrow remains a mystery.
II
But what shall I say of the present,
When all is to be written
Against the mystery foreseen?
And the pages of history
Shall be flipped in retrospect. . .
Folding every fulfilled day
Into folds of the past
To unveil the mysteries
Of a disclosed future
Where my body hopes
To find my journeyed mind
In due time.
