The dream is tickling the fingertips
Forcing to believe that reality is something
That cannot be held in hands.
The ancient drowned sun is looking from the bottom of each dewdrop
Calling to rescue it.
Exactly at midday silent whisper's leading to the thicket of the grass
Where light is hidden from shadow.
Every second it's easy to go astray,
To burst out crying to laugh, to keep silent to shout,
And by a ripe dandelion being scattered in the sky...
Stop breathing for ten heartbeats
To feel, whom you would be if you were not to be at all.

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