with a hurried heart ,
you write things
is it that, you have to get somewhere...
....or in that fantasy of yours,
you've somewhere to be.

wrap your scarf around your neck,
 for in this fantasy,
they love you and wish not for illness to fall upon you. 
in your fantasy, you are hurried because of your return, to the mother who longs for you
though the waters clearly reflect
                                                             that not a thought of you, clouds her mind
                                    that if you become ill, it will simply be a private nuisance
         that if you are absent, that which was once mourned, becomes custom    
   that your name, though in your fantasy is called....becomes like the howling wind  


                                   but go on,  


                      go off,


they are waiting,
your mother,
your brother,
your sister,

 the creatures wait for your arrival,

                                       as a mother in labor, they hold their breath for you.