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Come next year we shall sit on the porch
Count the birds flying north.
Children on holiday will play catch
Between the house and the meadow.
You will see, you will yet see
How good it will be
In…
The rinsed fences dry themselves in the wind.
The kneaded black earth turns softer under my feet.
Soaked soil, tousled and wanton wind,
What more can I want from you today?
It seems to me that I’ve…
With gentle fingers
The rain is softly
Playing sad melodies
On the black instrument of night.
We are sitting in the darkness,
Each in his own house
(The children have fallen asleep)
Listening…