The seconds with fuzzy outlines casually scatter eternity. Mysterious and deaf of silence, you're here again. With a straight head. The world is in a hurry. You have the time. Life is a moment, death is a long one. What is it for you - the unborn, from stone white is your image. You're dead, but with lively longevity, cold and radiant heat ... The poets cheer you and the pigeons have mercy with the wings. The cuttings of the years in your face they will not engrave their groove, do not feel, do not worry, colorless, but somehow ... donated to a soul. In front of you, stuck in silent contemplation, standing artist with hat in hand ... In the garden of secret wishes germinating new, fresh seeds.