This raining afternoon, I went to a poet’s grave.
His name is Karel Hynek Macha,
died in a pretty young age of 26,
whose grave once was the gathering place of a famous movement in 1989.

I sat with him and breathed the wet air,
only the red flowers prosperously blossomed on his head.
He was gone, and I had no chance to kiss his hand for showing my respect.
But I could still hear his heart throbbing with the romantic poem : ”May”.

What enriched and purified your May in your young life, Macha?
I couldn’t help asking for many times.
He slept in beauty, remained silent, only the sudden raindrops spoke low and answered my question.
I almost cried in front of his hidden face.....

It’s a small step from warm breath to cold death.
Flesh vanished, but beautiful mind will last.

How are you today,my dear friend?
Is your eye green as May forest,
or grey as December river...?
Have you ever received one poem from a sentimental heart?
Tell me more about your life.
Tell me what’s the color of your May….. ; )

A presto,