Mama knows how time flies,
But she erases its traces.

She was cutting the rose-trees,
When a thought made her shiver.

A thorn wrote on her hand: 
'Does he think about me? 
It's springtime.'

She cuts
Some daffodils
And kisses
The sap of the stem.

The hedge is black,
And hope behind.
Why has life
Chanced so much?