Your bench under the oak

as a memorial some new born
was still there during your lifetime
and who would have thought to turn around
towards that heavy wooden bench of yours
now down the hill there is your home
just when you pass the oak you think
as the path narrows from the tall grass
then suddenly like a curtain
from above the view falls on
flower boulevard
streets and marble city
in the background a lofty belfry
under the red oleander
there is a new home for all our silks
and you are not alone
I pass and look down
but in vain
when I know where you are now