SMALL WORLD
Right here and here only. Powerlines seem clean
erased. The birds as if evaporated.
The low red-orange sun hangs drying, sated.
Things hurt less mixed with mist, the pain’s less keen.
More ditch is born for every move ahead.
The waters are becalmed by freezing weather –
Moroccan girls stand studying together
the surface of fresh ice. The fish want bread.
The world now trails the walker, rests alone
each time he strays inside the whitish night
and in the silence does not know what land
it is surrounds him and what coast unknown
is creaking. But behind a floating light
the gate waits of the Chinese restaurant.
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