Untitled #23

Delicate little girl, you
looked straight
into my heart
with the blue eyes
of wild chicory
you could have
been my daughter
your childhood
and mine
could have intertwined
as in a woven sash
reading
the same fairy
tales
picking many kinds of herbs
in fields
on river banks
at lakesides
taking them
to the attic to dry
pressed between old newspapers
looking up their names
in books
without beginning or end
you are full of secrets
your existence
is a mystery, a wild
chicory, in this wasteland
of scrap metal
and broken
blocks of concrete