I'm warmed by the illusion again.
It's nothing, I'll take it with me.
I'll open the umbrella over my head –
Protection from people and light.
Going for a walk,
Rain knows every corner
In the notebook of the Park. Couple of lines
In the oblique line of the alley,
As a first grader I write
That there is no winter in sight.
No, and there will be no snow now.
Drafts of years rustle.
In ink blotches rusty Park.
And only hedgehog needles
Grass green, tender, prickly
Hope dispels the gloom.
The blood flow is slow.
The earth is edematous, sick
Oozes a tear, and I let
On a puddle of crumpled leaf.
A battered ship of trouble –
Ragged, leaky, dilapidated –
I push it to the reflection with a branch,
To the flower of the Christmas star.