On the windowsill, the crumpled sheets Rustled quietly — marked by the author’s hand… One said to the other, shifting aside: “Oh, you’re blocking the sun’s bright rays.” “I’ve heard we have the spirit of plants within, We’ll warm our flesh with sunlight’s kiss. Let’s stretch our shoots up toward the skies, The sap will surge — and then we’ll blossom!” The other, taken aback, shrank into a ball, Froze, and raised an eyebrow, lost in thought. But then, as something dawned, he cried out loud: “Hey, be quiet! What are you saying now?” Weary of boredom, two crumpled little leaves Lay silent till the day was done, Until the author, back from his stroll, Tossed them down to earth from the window. . . . So it is with people — if they’re forgotten, crumpled, They might chat a while, just out of boredom… While their authors — Though watchful and ever so alert — Are, all the same, asleep.
