August had begun,the leaves fell without pause,without warning, out of the blue,I met my poet.
Strange, I said to myself,why we had never met,surely because I was little,and he had become a man.
The falling leaves,made no impression at all,nor did our ages, either,but only our family ties.
There was another fact, too,that made us both indifferent,I lived in Europe,he on another continent.
Niece and uncle was the bond,that reached deep into history,where the gene comes from,for writing poetry.
He singled out a leaf,that was falling lazily,it seemed to me my uncle,was calling it his niece.
One moment he looked at the leaf,then his eyes pierced through me,it seemed that from me,he was asking for something.
“Listen,” he said at last,“my niece, you yourself,with your first book,I want us to celebrate your 14th birthday.
“Gather them in a bunch,those poems you have in your notebook,and with other books,score only victories!”
