Love

A hundred miles

from wall to wall.

An eternity and a half of vigils

blanker than snow.


Tons of words

old as the tracks

of a platypus in the sand.


A hundred books we didn't write

A hundred pyramids we didn't build.


Sweepings.

Dust.


Bitter

as the beggining of the world.


Believe me when I say

it was beautiful.





Miroslav Holub