Leisurely and alone,

I was wandering in the museum garden.

​

Flowers were completely gone,

But deep green summer leaves fully grown,

And on each branch

Small birds all the way chirping:

​

Certainly for me a perfect afternoon

To be seated still and calm,

To be lost in poem-reciting!

​

But suddenly a wind arose

When a human voice caught my ear,

Saying low yet rather vivid:

"It's me, strolling over a park now;

Well, thank God, not much ill;

Called to get an old boy's number,

To know if that 'un stays somewhere around."

 

That voice got far and not very clear, 

And the birds, too, chirping no more.

 

I lifted my vague eyes

And gazed to a distant sky.

​

Only seeing in the air

Merely a small white hole--

 

Floating alone, no clouds around,

 

Pointless at all, like the poem

That I'd just read and forgotten.