Under my small soft pillow
There is a secret wood,
In which there is a willow
That has a magic root.
This root is to work wonders,
It can give any thing.
It can calm down thunders
Or make someone a king.
It can present you diamonds
And heaps of pearls and gold,
Make brave the lowest cowards
And turn heat into cold.
This root can give you power
Or wings to fly the tops,
Or send a warm sun-shower
To water the sad crops.
And all this is no fiction,
For it's a poet's dream,
Deprived of the ambition
To keep only for them
The wonders and the thunders,
The diamonds and the gold,
The wings and the sun-showers,
The sugar and the salt.
There's no such trite ambition
Under this ammunition -
For there's no retraction
For poet's inspiration.
Under my battered pillow
There is my soul's wood,
In which there is a willow,
Possessing a mind's root.
This root is not a fiction.
It is a root of hopes,
Of dreams and my addiction
To build up magic worlds.
18.06.2017