Aquarelle

streets became an obstacle to footsteps because of their benches lighting columns stairs at the building entrances you are not breathing a quarrel concealed by the door is screaming from a nearby apartment no one has ever told that it is going to be easy under the window football boots unearthed from the pile of Red cross's garbage are chasing the ball for you it doesn't make any difference a thought - the tree will sprout if not in yours than at least in your neighbor's backyard - is disgraced by spilled concrete again it won't happen to you a touch of warmth imprinted at your cheek and your silence below the heels of well trained passers-by you have mislaid your expectation and threw that last look at the muddy road it should happen to you maybe already tomorrow either way pink is only a reflection of the red on the white surface