The white wing cuts through the wingless day,
the sunray roams over the windless bay.
A silent kiss through a white-white screen,
beloved face which is hardly seen.
It all had happened so long ago,
I don't know when, I refuse to know.
It is all memory and its mindless game -
soon every thing looks just the same.
My childhood hastening to pass,
a cricket chirping in the grass.
Succession of the open doors
and in their depth a grazing horse
enveloped by the reverie
of the quiet wood and the quiet sea.
How could I stretch, how could I start
reaching for time's relentless heart?
How could I force the past to be
while there is nothing left of me?
The red wing cuts through the wingless day,
blood trickles down into the bay.
A silent kiss through a red-red screen,
beloved face - not gone, not seen.
It is all memory and its fate -
to have, to lose, to imitate.