Thursday, May 19, 2005


It is a blissful morning. I don’t know why. It must be written somewhere out there in the sky, behind the elephant-size clouds. In the last days, the chestnut tree threw most of its flowers on the floor. It must be tired of its beautiful looks. When I woke up this morning I saw the contours of a man through the frosted glass of my bedroom.
He moved from left to right, bending over from time to time. When I opened my curtains he was gone and so were the flowers. There were only poodles of water left. Who did the crying? Was it him or the tree? It wasn’t me. It is a blissful morning.


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