Give it a name.
Give it some shape.
Call it aloud,
and it will come here.

It gets inside.

Into our mind, into our dreams
To carve a new portal of old memories.

We think we’ve sealed it, but time flies into our skin.
Fractals of the multiverse scratch the surface of doubts.
Cataplasm doesn’t soothe our pain.

We are shaped like clay figurines of soft matter,
and so, so deeply fragile!

Drifting joyfully into illusion,
we are children from the far Northland.
Without light and warmth,
on a journey to the forgotten home.

Having only each other…
Seeing, touching, hearing, dreaming…
Closing our freedom in minutes,
we don’t watch the deep sky.

Right there, the rings of Saturn
spinning in their own beat
as our lives get faster.

They reflect our vanity with a soft gaze
until we cross the portal.