Sunday Eluli Olives Whether Somehow So... Poem by Maria Barbara Korynt

she talked when she was under the influence of alcohol
it betrayed her a breath. Sunday olives didn't help,
which she swallowing one by one.

it were an events, who a long time ago they passed,
as her youth and now, has often only lost hair,
and lost it unfortunate keys, from time to time.

Paulo - still he, is silent and silence harms her saying,
that it is slowly killing her. only well-trodden paths
and Italian holidays a long time ago, recalls.

he called her Elula whether somehow similarly.I think,
that he not could talk otherwise it was too difficult,
for him. and now, the dead silence, only is.

he has nothing because emotions died away and as an
earthenware pot on the bursting fire. and then a barn was
in fire and they all were jumping

through the fire like skipping, and she there realized
that a life wasn't a fairy tale and it is necessary
to earn, not only to bread.

She earned money, fraying the fringe and she pinned
artificial flowers to the hat, that in every evening
to amuse the street

Elula whether somehow this way Paulo name her
the one, who was and...he! and wasn't... and she olive only
by the olive, and talked. - not saying


who must pay for olives, after all she not, she could
afford the broth on Sunday, when somebody in the country
ran the hen over - so who payed?



it will remain a mystery for descendants.
whether Paulo? who knows what it in man
perhaps sit down...

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It is prose-poetic. I like it to write.
(of cycle: ' Unfinished Conversations. ')