Walking quarter of the way, // dream not yet awake.
The world has quietly slid // into the pocket.
Our retro trends go back, // to 2000, the beginning.
A giant brain, shrouded in pockets, // wandering,
Our thoughts, in darkness, // grow, prominently,
Like potatoes germinate in the refrigerator, // until next open,
Without remorse, think, // how to pinch off your personal life,
After all, impossible to change, // it's a dream.
In the park, chess // games will never cease,
Aged hands constantly searching in their pockets,
Always, fail to grasp anything but hands.
All sweaty, dripping,
It would never mold, // if washed meticulously.
Children pick up soil from the ground,
Tear open flowers.
Small birds being caught, // tight, hold,
Stuffing all the beauty before sunset, // into pockets.
Looking back anxiously in all directions, // them, I can see.
Disappear into the depths of small alleys, // then,
flowing with people, // be the crowded,
Appearing, but memories of only decades ago,
Not knowing where to categorize them,
Knowing what to do, to put back,
Hands in my pockets.

I watch calendars, // as the world is printed into.
Same time, New walls are erected, // in the park.
Cats and dogs are // all tucked away into pockets,
Countryside and wilderness, // the forests, never come back,
Let's pack them all away.
Until it transforms into yet another world.
With only half the value as justification, // evaluation,
The sole essence drifts further // and further from its original material,
And own pocket.

A new world, now, // in yellow and green,
Our hands gave the // Earth a uniform haircut.
Emptying my pocket, // only a sock, found,
It is also a pocket, inside,
This way, it can dance together // with the children,
with my hand.