And the White Sun was growing orange
  as I walked through the archers
    of the boulevard...

The trees, whose names I don't know,
   carried their lace, almost imponderable fragile leaves
    as if on their palms - to the Sky,
     immitating the design of refined Japanese graphics...


I've seen this already
  as well as these people
    on the impressionists' canvases 
      and here 
       twenty years ago.

I've taken to dilapidated
  old buildings...


I must be growing old...



spring 1999