VII

There,
distant and green at times,
with promises of clumsy seduction,
the city awaits me, its lonely
meekness of an aged lover.

Nervous in haste,
like lives or candles without destiny,
the windows of the car quicken their journey
in the last fields.
The wind pushes now strange enrollments,
as it must push indifferently
yellow gulls into the trees
when autumn arrives.

There,
the green call of cypress
resembles a sad mast
                            because it gives
the smell of an old port,
drunk sailors in the shadows.