THE CITY

I used to live in an unhappy city, divided by a slow river, pointed towards infinity. Still trees on the banks robbed the sun of a difficult sky.

I would await the end of a wasted day, interrupted by the sounds of the squall. I would leave my house turned aside in search of the afternoon & its sights.

The declining sun painted the city of offended ruins.

Birds flew above to rest further on.

I felt strangled by life. The ghost of a woman, the height of bitterness, followed me with unmistakable steps, a sleepwalker.

The sea frightened my withdrawal, undermining the earth in the secret of night. A breeze confused the trees, blinded the bushes, finished in a tired flower.

The city, worn by time & greeted by a bend in the continent, kept common custom. It told of water vendors & beggars versed in proverbs & advice.

The wisest of them insisted upon my attention by referring to the likeness of a Hindu fable. He succeeded in speeding the course of my thoughts, returning me to my memory.

The hour before dawn my fever vanished, cutting loose the madness of a scattered dream.