On a Sunday with white napkins 
Raspberries scorched by the sun 
In the soft toughs in the grass
Along the highway

Drops of rain in the thorns of roses
Leaf by leaf mindlessly falling quiet and pure
Eye of an Indian pony
Pasted the barbed wire

Snails converse over and over 
Mindlessly murmuring 
Without love
In the soft ferns

The dotted line along the road
Like a line to be cut by the scissors
Desires the outline of an orthodox silence
It is everywhere

Servant ran for fresh milk
Beans from the coffee mills 
Served in a blue tea pot
Topped to the rim of the container

Arrived on a Carpathian rug 
Only existing in dreams of black and white
Landing soundlessly
The encore for more went over and over
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