
Crowds
Lubomír Tomik
multitudes
cuckoo
alarm clocks
roosters crowing
millions of touches
whispering
tickling
millions of astronomical minutes across the ages
II.
past
dream
presence only
future,
shrouded in a cloud of seconds,
which are slowly eroding our lungs
out of the trenches
breathe of smell of the years
dreams are also intangible,
the blues of glittering fairy blouses