"Art creates the dream of life"
Is that the season?
The leaves are hitting the silent windows
and some roots of trees are creaking,
but I am a dream.
I do not recognize the colors,
when the sun of that town
without time shelters me like Mum.
Which flowers shall I gift to you?
I am not a saint - I cannot revive you.
I cannot even grief.
To gift to you - a last flower.