To the gone summer

"It's just slow days, running into slow nights."
- C. Bukowski

Sun encages everything in its own existence
Look through the window on a sunny afternoon
And everything will seem to be dead.
Even if it winds, the trees just go
Back and forth back and forth
The leaves on the ground slip a bit
And then stop.
The cars, if they exist, are going
Exactly where they should go
At the predicted speed
There’s no freedom
No surprising movement
No inner nor outer life
People are just slowly getting crazy
With their dull tries to kill boredom
While sweat drips from their foreheads
And nothing really happens