The paper boat by the rivulet
Yesterday my lady wrote something on me,
I heard her whisper poetry, poetry,
between her bath and lunch,
Plugged me in between her book,
lest I should be elusive from her,
writing and striking, reading and revising,
by noon uploaded into the computer,
in the evening by the maid,
pushed from basket to bin,
crumbled and crushed to be
downloaded as a waste.
The wind footballs me to you,
In a high pitch of goodwill,
My dear water, I am by you,
We move along, we sing along,
We move along, we sing along.
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