Tuesday, November 16, 2021

POETRY FROM ALMA MATER III: COLOMBA

NOT ME

No. I do not dream.

Those reveries are far in the past.

They are filled with contemplations,

images born first from meditation

where each face was erased

as one event at the time.


But one night she appeared to me in a dream

walking with a wavy rhythm on a Paris street,

perhaps, it was on Les Champs Élysées,

perhaps, on an older street of First Arrondissement.

She was for a moment still slim and pretty as I met her one night

in an entourage of food from Strasbourg

where French and German friends also gathered together.

So, I no longer dream of that beauty, 

perhaps too cute to be for me,

maybe not intended to be lovely mine

instead for a younger, wealthier man.


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