The night gave us white paper, Nauris
and with that you rolled a little of your
discreet tobacco. I made a note instead
of some word overflowing,
before blowing on it
a drier voice.
Then we sat down at the fresh-oiled
chessboard, your etruscan smile
was engraved without hurry for every
discovered misunderstanding.
It rumbled and you was forking another cigarette,
betraying a hand older than the other one:
«I was staying in the rain, once» – you said.
«It’s impossibile to wet what’s already soaked».
Originally posted in Italian on May 2, 2008 at 0:10
Mu
Two messy eyebrows
one little childhood scar.
The skyline on the sand
and four drops of green tea.
So one writes blank.
Friday, May 9, 2008
to Nauris
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1 comment:
This poem is dedicated to my dear friend Nauris from Latvia, to his blasphemous theology, and to our nights spent playing chess till late in the summer of Heidelberg.
Originally commented on May 7, 2008 at 1:24
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