It’s 3 in the morning,
But I can’t sleep
Because of too many cigarettes
Because of the ashes of cigarettes around me
Because of the heat that not even in the night
Isn’t more supportable.
The city, what is the city?
Some people work now
Some are sad
Others have just found a reason of joy.
Some walk and some drive,
Others just stay
And not either them know from when.
Some think, not many
Many renounced to do that any more.
Most of the people sleep,
And maybe the sleep is probably
one of the few things
that we have since
man kind was born on Earth.
But the city and it’s agitation
try to still it from us
The same way it did
with so many other things.
It’s night and in the darkness lighted
of too many electric lights, you can hear
The deaf sound of the wind between the buildings
Far away the tumult of the city
isn’t stopped, not even now.
A car alarm sounds annoying
Forgotten opened of too many care.
A dog barks a piece of metal
another one responses to him
happy he isn’t alone.
You can hear voices, a radio
So not everyone are sleeping.
The sleep makes them fall one by one
most of them anyway.
But the sound of the morning will wake them up
Each of them very soon.
It’s morning, and the street is animated as always.
The sound of the carrs stopped at the red light
I can’t make a difference between it and silence.
And the silence seams to quite without it.
An old woman, allready takes home
her poor bags.
Men and wimen, carefully dressed
all walk to their working place.
A siren of an ambulance abashes the animated monotony.
A young man, very happy listens to music,
he is still dizzy because of the last night party.
A begger, said, begges hes right to live.
A dog with leash,
is searching for a litle beat of grass,
surprised by so many noises.
A blond girl with long legs,
makes all the man turn their heads.
A dark cat frighten all the walkers.
The horns of the cars covers all it is left
from the silence of the morning.
New faces although they all look the same,
Same cars, same newspapers,
Same sounds in the subway and trains.
The heat is already unsupportable
even from the morning, and melts all the dreams.
And those of us who can’t adapt,
who don’t want to accept all what this kind off life means
We just have the hopes of the weekends.
Alex Cuciurean 2006, English version 2009