Today

Tomorrow, at dawn again the sun will come - without me - and again it will smile on the yellow clusters of wheat on the sour wild apples on the buckets of the well on the carpet loom and its unfinished patterns. But in its unfinishedness on the colorless branch far from its rose, what will the nightingale do? What dream will it dream? I will stay tonight I will finish the rose tonight. It is drawing near with its chicks and its new buds tomorrow...