Vile Centuries Weightless Wings

 From the roar of mercy, I could find a few more good friends; stray, lost dogs whine in the depths of alleys. It would be good if a guardian angel could protect me from troubles as an invisible protective vest. Vile ages, decades that have become unworthy - even so - will outlive me. Holding hands - anyway - will rarely be a saving protection. Over my head, crowing night-dark crows still circle; "Too bad, too bad!" they wail. 

Deep down in my soul, a barefoot child is still crying and screaming, constantly calling for its mother, but it can't be done anymore. I am a mumbling soul inside myself, while more and more people are bustling around the street, shouting. A sense of special peace and harmonious balance can now trickle down my Sisyphean, weathered shoulders less and less. No acquaintances or rescuers come to me anymore; I am left to myself with its belated knives of mercy, without conditions most emotions lose their validity. 

I can no longer slap the brutal, cruel Executioner-Death, although it would be good to do so some day. Because the primordial palm of the Universe can no longer carry its cursed victims. My soul, like an Atlas-bag, is stretched by heavy, weighty millstones, which I am now forced to carry into the uncertain Infinity. 

Who knows, How much longer?! Now I stagger, stumbling like a silent old man, as if life had been stolen and suddenly wiped out. The lake of my troubled soul still hides a child's cry; fewer and fewer people can now know the earthly counterpart of my true face. The weight of my tears, like hard, thick peas, knock against the wall of Time; one day I too will finally pass away, like the prehistoric dinosaurs.