The book is lost
but the words lie scattered on the table,
each letter shining and distinct.

Who will pick them up?
The little boy with his toy truck?
Or the dog with his raised tail?
Or the university professor with the hole in his pocket?

What a long journey each syllable takes.
What is its destination?
A leaf, a star, some soldier's bivouac?

The sun shines.
The day breaks.
Pigeons on the grass, alas.

All is not lost.