Half past twelve. How the time has passed.
Half past twelve. How the years have passed.
Cavafy

This is a revelation, in all, perfect honesty. A recollection. Time, loneliness, love are all fleeting away to become past.
It is nine o’clock. The poet lights the lamb that projects in front of him the reflection of his young body. Shadows of the past, memories, happy moments, pleasures and sadness, losses of time would remind that everything passes more quickly than we want to believe. Is this pessimism or self-awareness? One hour will follow the other, just as years will succeed one after another, both filled with nostalgia. People perceive the world poetically, without controlling it, without controlling poetry itself. Besides, meaning cannot be defined even in art. We allow ourselves to be fascinated, as a gift, a poem, a miracle. This given to us world is nostalgic, tough, tortured, violent, unfair, happy, even a wonder. We participate in it and we are being taught by the conflicts. Broken apart in it we shape ourselves.