There are those who grow br gardens in their heads br paths lead from their hair br to sunny and white cities br br it's easy for them to write br they close their eyes br immediately schools of images br stream down their foreheads br br my imagination br is a piece of board br my sole instrument br is a wooden stick br br I strike the board br it answer me br yes--yes br no--no br br for others the green bell of a tree br the blue bell of water br I have a knocker br from unprotected gardens br br I thump on the board br and it prompts me br with the moralists dry poem br yes--yes br no--nobr br Zbigniew Herbertbr br