I draw the circles and the lines
by white chalk on the asphalt,
I draw the trees.
If I stretch out my hand
I can gather the clouds
and make a blue angel out of them.
My love, come here,
because the mornings are late
and the night is so sweet.
Your eyes are glowing,
in the dry horizon you can see the cranes
crossing the fog.
Like in a strange season
all is awry,
only I know, only you know
that it’s not the symmetry making us happy,
but the remembrance of live faces
which have watched over our childhood.
Everything is dry in your absence,
odorless, colorless, useless,
they are all waiting for you to occupy your place.