Dream- poem

I woke up one day to the pecking sound of a bird cutting down my wooden house to make its own nest.

There was sunless daylight, and it wasn’t cold in the Mid-Pole, though locals still shivered from habit,

still complained from habit, and were warlike without a war, mean without fight and dry without humor.

I woke up next to a faraway war, with barnfuls of toilet paper to clean our asses during a crisis,

and shipments of food and arms to keep life while destroying it.

I was dreaming of love and woke up to porn, dreaming of sex just to wake up to dull Instagram posts.

I was dreaming of life, and woke up to invitations to get drunk without alcohol, to skip death and forget tomorrows.

I dreamt of a savage connection of the wild and the human and woke up to a world of egoless egoism.

I went back to sleep and dreamt of licking my dog’s hand so he would free me in the park for a few minutes.


I'm a writer born in Argentina, but currently living in Poland. I work as an English and French teacher, translator and copywriter.

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