A eucalyptus is raging in the Athens noon.
Invisible wind, golden green waves.
A hot, full void.
Poet Margarita Serafimova
I lived by the beautiful hills,
and each of my steps was up or down.
They were radiant.
Fine black eyes of a Swahili youth,
more ancient and sparkling than Arabia.
He is gently telling me that what I want is not there.
Time is approaching
on the sidewalk.
A cloud of white cherry petals.
A flock of gracious sea boats,
one with sails.
We are sitting at the dock like ancient children.