Here in this café,
voices float
like spheres of foam,
Each bubble, coloured, effervescent,
soon to be engulfed by another.

The threads of laughter
drown out the clinking of glasses.

Women talk,
the sound of their diphthongs
forming arcane rhythms to my ignorant ears.

At a distance in a corner,
a muted chair
doodles memories from another time.

The music, unburdened by finitude,
slips beats between the words and the scribbles.

For a fleeting second, the three seem to unite,
and then the kaleidoscope falls apart again.

The doodler drudges further,
the words split into jagged syllables,
and the music gives in to the radio jockey.



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One of these days
I will fall through the roof
into myself.

Then I will have heard
the secret of the river.

I will have untied sorrows
from drooping leaves
and let them flow with the wind
into an obscure winter.
The leaves will smile between their veins
and welcome the kiss of naked raindrops.

Forests will unbraid themselves
and give me their fingers to climb on to.

The wind will blow off the shroud of the city
and leave urban prisons caging themselves.

In the echoes of the silence
I will drift,
I will float,
in symmetry,
I will float,
I will drift,
in the echoes of the silence.