When it's still not time

the middle of town when still dark

but not night anymore. Saturday began

Friday

and it's still too cold early in the morning

as he goes up the stairs,

the station as the only place warm enough to read.

That is so so he does not really wake up

and dreams long lost in sleep are fetched back,

brought to reality under new light,

eyes not yet that clouded by the feel

of life passing.

He knows there's people living

in hospitals, suitcases all over the floor,

take-away food

and that even children are waiting to die;

they kill a man and ask us to forget there was ever a war.

But ten years are gone now

and nothing brings anything back. Not now,

not anymore. Then the phone rings

and everything stops -- it is 7:20, time

to wake up! says the machine as he

stands up trying desperately not to think

about anything now, finally and almost sadly

awake for the world.