The empty streets
did not grow tired
of changing their direction,
were a mirror of the city’s loneliness,
like a museum where we were statues.
Then morning came,
stunned by our presence,
it greeted us from the start of the street
your oriental face,
astonishment in your shimmering emerald eyes.
You freed me from the poems of forsakenness,
I stepped beyond my statue,
beyond my language,
beyond my name,
to you.
How can a path emerge for me
after this morning,
if not through your face?
Whenever I am in search of myself,
I wake up here,
on a bench,
on this river,
the name of which I have forgotten to enquire.
I call it by your name, “Elya”.
The city testifies
you are the sun,
and I was a lost poet who
this morning
found in your face
his papers and his ink.
