I remember that storks left that place
and their nests didn’t turn green.
Walking in the moonlit field
I forgot were was the stream with ruby fish,
somewhere close to the juicy meadow,
after a while brickmakers came there
to dig the riverbed
then glassy sands swallowed the sun
like hungry white bones.
Time stood still
in a dry willow log
rolling on my way,
only stones remained in their roots.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the church,
I’ll place my palm in the bell’s shadow,
maybe it will toll for noon.