Arid heat.
An ensemble
of colour,
the façades
in ruin,
running down,
on my left.
On my right,
a white mirage,
weighting in the light:
the long, rectangular
wall of a church,
running up the street.
Voices behind me,
some old tavern.
Passers-by, not men
nor women, a few,
now and then,
gazing, who's that?
Silhouettes of by-gone
ages, dark ages.
This is not my time.
This is not my place.
I take a deep breath,
lit another cigarette.
No coffee left in my cup.
No refilling is offered.
The tavern drunk
the men, muted.
Birds sing,
regular spaces between,
tree to tree.
The coffee tables are red,
spotting the side walk.
It is nice to be out,
in the ending summer,
soon this heat will
grow cold.
But the sun here
seldom hides.
That is nice.
Church bells.
Heard from so afar,
across the plane.
Time to go,
now.