GARDEN BEFORE THE RAIN
by János
Oláh
Beyond the foliage of the sour
cherry is the neighbor’s brick
wall.
A tiny garden in the hot
and humid stomach of
the city, an isle of breath.
The old well reeks of dreams
and from it no gleam ever winks,
no sound names its name.
Unmeasured notes invade
between the hollow echoes
of the veranda where mixed
signals try to dance.
Hundreds of furtive looks are
averted. This is what we are:
the hurried crayon scrawl of
an idyllic collapse at
the pleasure of a wall.
