At the poet's bed
Get lost, and don't get lost
his voice speaks softly
a little timid, in short sentences
his words ring out, and I listen
attentively
to what he has to say
he asks me about the sea
I tell him about waves
seagulls above the horizon
and playing thoughts
I show him pictures
he takes my hand
in his
that comes out of a short silence
land with the stone horizon
where narrative clouds are silent
did you talk to that woman
he asks, but no
there is nothing more to explain
my voice remains serene
in the calm of my tranquility
she's gone from here
left after the sun
looking for new love
he looks at me with sad eyes
to the slow words of protest
hangs the image of his beloved
in the intimate wilderness
of a thought dream.
© mobar