In the corner of a pillow

In the corner of a pillow
there's a leaf bud of a willow,
does not know where it comes from,
possibly from Estergom,
stays there sleeping till it yellows
waiting for some other fellows
who forgot to come and see
all that happened to you and me.

In the waters of a river
run some circles with a shiver,
do not know who threw the stone,
when I was - with you - alone,
and they run and run forever,
blind and foolish their endeavour,
till they see the shining sea,
out of reach for you and me.

February l3, 2o14
 

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