rush

What is this life we rush forth through,
Where we can't stop to notice true?

But we must run, as we have done,
For years go, and years come.

And so we run in search of blunt,
Too occupied, like on a hunt:

Our skies are crushed by buildings tall —
Created by and for us all.

But as we go close to the sky,
Our grass goes orange, flat, and dry.

As one expects, the day is tight;
Their clock again will strike midnight,

And they will fall into a dream,
With hope for touch and lips that gleam...

Another world, so free of rush,
Where grass is green and tall and lush.

All of the smells that feel surreal...
They are jerked back to what is real.

Tomorrow they will likely stop
And catch a breath — not on the top —

But on the grass, the truer one,
Goodbye, the rush; oh what you've done!

Now that we love around us,
Who is to stop and join thus?

Who has the spare time to live
The shortest moment of belief?

And even if, someone does halt
And join our lovers' vault,

Where we stand together just to stare,
To notice life that does not spare...

And if they love just like we love,
To stare now and stare true,

Do we expect to love them too,
A new bystander of the troop?

Like a bird will sing to find a mate,
We stopped to love, and without mistake,

We see the one who wasn't late —
They came in time, and with a cake:

Just slow enough was their step,
That we kept up and took a gap.

For real feel is slow; it simmers,
Just like the lips, with shiny glimmers —

The kitchen love with wines and pears,
And cake of love spread through the years:

It is so slow, that runners too
Will always catch that it is true.

In times of vain, and times of high,
We will remember the love cry.