Strange and dreamlike is the language
Of thought, connecting thoughts by dots
As under a pall of gloom, a joint desert
Under a breathless sky of waiting stars .
A poet’s love lives far off and breathless
In a station where a train is parked off,
And falls asleep in dreams of a waiting.
A day turns an hour in a second stanza
And a second in the next one of waiting.
Words are a wait , strange and dreamlike.
As the stars are connected by a few dots
An hour turns a moment of endless wait.