How did You arrange everything
in its peace, just like an apple
grows on the branch
in the morning sun?
How come everything has a meaning,
like a sledge sliding on the snow,
in the blizzard,
filled with firewood?
How come everything flows incessantly,
without stumbling, towards another universe,
although we are afraid to give our hand
to the person standing next to us?
We throw ashes in the wind,
we strip words of their sense,
while our heart beats inside us
as painfully as in the first day…