And only "if", the little word... 
was born from silent lips, 
was born one hundred, 
one hundred years ago. 
But never said, 
but never hurt the sense, 
but never smelled the voice of stone between the flames. 
But somebody should know, 
but somebody should feel, 
something, something more than taste of oatmeal. 
When sorrow of sunset speaks from the deepness eyes,
when sorrow of sunset ones tries to heal the wound...
there is the only hope...
there is the only wish: happened to be saved...
At last...At last... at last...  
But music of the spring was so unusual bright, 
like drop of silent rain, which glides away from us. 
Incidence of the drop, what melted from inside, 
was melted as a wish about cavalcade... 
what goes along the path, so silent path of moon, 
so warm as windy milk which bowled in the cup... 
and only candle light reminds us of the Truth...  
The Unity of songs... 
But rescue of the dream, 
that slept in golden cage, 
that was so far, so far, will happen, maybe, but...
So pity what I was... ....was not given wings. 
I feel that I could fly above, above the light... 
And paper is so white, so luminescent white 
and only once in life it"s written something more,
than sentence of the warm, unbaked, but tasty bread. 
I ask you never taste, please, never taste the bread...
But Unity of "if"...