Artchil Daug

He asked not perdition yet
the world opened, carried
in the air of the afternoon
his eyes to hers, translucent
messenger of the nymph
behind the screen of
the cellular phone resting
in his pocket of contemplation.

Pray not the air change
in the middle of speech, inside
the rolls of conversations that
seek not the blunders
of correctness, the ideals
that the nymph embraced
in the fleeting eyes of this
childish messenger, who
outdid the message

in the cold air, after a drizzle,
on the ancient buildings
of sentiments and emotion,
the nymph forgotten, the world
looking the gaps in time,
he chided and decided, inept
before letting her go
to the chambers of his heart.