The Woman and the Violin

As if she were a Spanish question mark,
she sits at the window and grows tall cypresses between her eyelids,
she takes out pocket watches from beneath her breasts,
some snowflakes fly like silvery confetti from her fingers,
and many quince flowers fall from her Arabian slippers.
She sits with the window drapes blowing in the wind,
she’s calm and soft, serious and silent as if she were clothless.

It was somewhere on the Champs-Élysées, oh no, it was at the Kremlin,
or maybe in Saint Mark’s square, somewhere with many pigeons,
with white and red chalk signs on the street and a heavy downpour over you,
such as you felt shame in the face of God, the sky threw itself on your heads,
along with the memories of love declared between you two,
like swearing amid pillows, and you my beloved, and you my dearest one.

She kept silent for three hours like in any other Sunday,
hungry and thirsty, with her cheeks pressed against the blue window sashes,
with the wind and the old blue paint sticking to her hair,
she raises from the Persian carpet hanging on the wall, she’s weaved among stars,
she flies with her knees held to her chest,
and that smell of old and warm wood in her nostrils knocks her down.