Here was once the bedof a child who was borne,in a doll's box,to the park of earth and stone. Since then, in their corner obscurethe lead soldiers stand dumb,stock-still by the trumpetthinking of battlesand victories imaginary. A tin express trainin the wee cardboard stationhas rusted wistfully,and a Lilliputian travellerhas fallen asleep in the carriage. And the gentle horse, of painted wood,in his mind softly neighs,and bitterly weeps the dumb clown,the faded harlequin. from Elegies for Wee Beings, 1931
by Eugen Ionescu (1909-1994)
