Between her papers she held a poetry, a single one, I don’t know of who was, I don’t know why she held it and I don’t know why she wanted to make some corrections.
What hits me is that it was just so and then nothing was more like before.
I write it as she wanted it.
You bent the head as the violets
at the sunset of sweet spring,
a sparrow flew away… cried in the sun
and you went with the stars at the evening…
And you left me so, without saying anything,
as if that sleep was short
and your hand fondled me yet
and your eye saw me yet.
And you went away so… between the panting
of that hot ending summer,
nothing you said me and you went away
to the infinite opening in front of you…