I passed through the Brooklyn Bridge,
down on Ocean Parkway going
east,
and,
even though it is called parkway,
I drove on it…
Until I arrive at Brighton Beach,
I wandered on the dirty sand,
I sat down,
and I waited.
The sun was refusing to lie down its dusk
colors,
on the smooth and bluish
waters of the Atlantic…
An old couple fulfilled once again their
routine of walk,
under one more sunset,
and that,
for them,
it was no longer needed to be enumerated;
and at last,
the seagulls left;
and there I stayed!
What else would surface on the poet’s script?
Perhaps,
one more
encircle of illusion,
or a vase of hope,
it does not matter;
in the search for the reality,
or in its own zany willing to please the
present,
stayed in my memory,
all the echoes from a forlorn sunset,
somewhat in a whispered tone,
and from the timorous
circumspection of the loneliness.
New York, September
of 2000