My Time

Time passes through the corridor of utter darkness. Its shoulder catches on the brick of the corridor, it scrapes. Its foot slips into a pit, it scrapes. Its smooth, high forehead, from the blow of a hard object, is scraped, it bleeds. Time passes. — I smell the jasmine of its breath! — I turn my eyes: Have you reached my courtyard, Time? The bruises on your arm can be seen. Dried blood has clotted on your face. You have fixed your eyes on me, you are laughing! I run out of the bedchamber, barefoot, disheveled, my tears rain, rain, on your face...