Exile by Marjon Van Bruggen

I am not a silent poet

Just another piece expelled from this planet.

On this island night comes

at mid-day.

Time is a train,

as usual running late along

a golden rail which

crosses the clock´s face

East to West.

He who makes it here

wonders for the rest of his days

why he is now blind,

seeing only in dreams and nightmares.

He gropes around, hopes

to find a treasure

hidden in the hole where Alice

plunged after her rabbit.

His name is not Alice.

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