I admit: you are a little older than me.
But what if you wouldn’t be in the same story
which is not always the same for us in the same time.

What if the mountain we climb wouldn’t be so sure.
And what if – there is always plenty of ifs – the lake
we took a bath would be only a pleasant image.

The mirror of us. The winter bird in the tale
I spoke in our secret language to bury
the song we used to sang on the yesterday’s edge.

And here, and then. And the home on the other hand.
That is the hand of our IT we always shake
and never catch – as we want to – the next morning.