Old Love

I feel the verandah groaning of time, I feel the trees raising their eyelashes, I feel the window watching outside, and then inside, outside, bored by me. I feel the garden raising slowly with a new morning on her ankles, and looks at me with sympathy: ,,To leave, to leave not…”, tearing, petal with petal a chrysanthemum. And the dew gathers and becomes a river that rises to the sky on an escalator, on which, later, is getting down the sun. I feel myself halving, while the verandah, the trees,, the windows, the garden, the chrysanthemum and the dew are asking about you… And all the eyes, even mine, lean on your tombstone, waiting for you to come, knowing that you won’t disappoint us.