The Unexpressed

The city all lit up under its evening sky;

two bright red lights blink inexplicably high up;

the windows, the bridge, the streets, the taxis, the buses.

'I too had a bicycle - he said; - 'I was dreaming' - he said.

The woman in the room looked away; she didn't say a word;

her dress was unstitched on the right side; if she stood

one could see her shoulder was bent. As for the rest,

one can' talk about them - he said; you keep them like broken

water glasses;

you take them down yourself, when the rubbish collector passes,

with a guilty eagerness, early in the morning, the beautiful water

glasses

wrapped in old newspapers, always anxious

you might knock them against the rails of the staircase, because

they still ring

with a deep sound, penetrating - that unbreakable sound

as if conspiring with the window panes, with the wind, with the

walls.

The blind musician then goes up the stair exhausted; he puts

down

his violin case on the chair; he opens it; in it

are two of the three water glasses, glittering, whole.