the Cyclops and the piano
on the terrace
in the afternoon
talk of war
from the shadows
imagined they could hear
not the beat of waves
along the beach
but the sounds of stumbling feet
was it only because of their graves
those summer-visitors who'd
stayed
and now his focused gaze
as an Arabesque was played
to where
the palm-trees splayed crazed patterns
and sunlight bursts staccato
in the chill of lemonade
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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