Work Text:
POEM TO THE OLD CAFé:
A winter evening.
Meanwhile it's raining,the smoke writes the last stroke of a sole word.
.... An unique word...
. The shadows of the night aren't so far.
They're black.Or gray.It doesn't matter.
The cards come and go .And the dice.
A domino of loneliness shells its ladder,
.The aftertaste of alcohol,insolent,fights the coffee
Eternal,obscure like a sorrow,
Lime a silent sorrow,unspeakable,and quiet.
Yes,it's the same café.But without anything.
It rested naked,nude,facing the wind,smelling like old times,
Smelling like a river,which is to say eternity.
It's the same café?
Looking at the street,
It doesn't recognise the path of any carter,
Nor the docker,ravenous with alcohol and ,oblivion...
Nor the lost poet,nor the incurable bohemian
.Or the casual kirkman,.nor the beggar.
It's the same café?
Or time has been bartered into infinite?
.